


A Freely Entered Contract

by sanddrake



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 10:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30087552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanddrake/pseuds/sanddrake
Summary: Lancelot had always known that sneaking into dungeons for a little light role-play had its risks. When he's finally caught in the act, he is forced to grapple with the possible consequences of his actions and whether he can force himself to give it up.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Lancelot (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One of SR Lancelot's seasonal lines can be read that he and the captain are sneaking into dungeons to role-play Lancelot's continued imprisonment. This fic was written taking that implication completely seriously.

The quiet drip-drip of water in the distance was the only sound in the dungeon except for Lancelot’s slow, long breaths. The manacles dug deep into the heels of his hands, the chains cruelly pulling his arms to their limits. His shoulders ached, and he sighed, trying to sit higher, reduce his weight a bit. The situation was… extreme. His hands tingled, his legs hurt, and his head had begun to spin from the pain and the enforced confinement. He hadn’t… expected it to take this long. If he had, he would have planned differently.

Had something happened to his visitor, he wondered, a faint hint of unease settling in his chest. This was a dangerous little game he played, and while the hint of fear made him shiver, he wasn’t so crazy as to ignore the possible implications. No one knew he was down here except for the one who was supposed to come for him. There might be guards, but Lancelot chose his dungeons carefully. He didn’t want one which was occupied or one too tightly monitored. Most lords were sensible enough to have a guard walk the halls of a dungeon even if it was abandoned, searching for signs of anything out of the ordinary, but it was the sort of duty a guard might shirk… and it might be worse if Lancelot _were_ found, as horrifying as that was. The lord might recognize him… or might not. What would this lord do if he found an invader chained up in his dungeon? Would he let Lancelot out… or…?

It would be best if his visitor came quickly, Lancelot thought, his eyes straying to the door, which had been left half ajar. They’d done this several times, and nothing had ever gone wrong… aside from that one time where a guard had nearly caught them. But his visitor was resourceful… they would make it inside. Surely.

“I can hardly believe my eyes.”

The cheerful baritone voice wasn’t the voice of his expected visitor, and Lancelot’s heart began to pound rapidly in his chest. Someone gently pushed the door fully open and stood in the doorway. His neatly trimmed golden hair was swept to a side part and almost glowed in the lamp light, and while the shadow fell across his eyes, Lancelot could clearly see the amusement written in the shape of the man’s mouth. His clothing glittered in the indirect light, and the smooth fall of the half-cloak over the man’s shoulder and the coin-sized golden broach holding it in place indicated the wealth of the wearer. Hand resting easily on his hip, he swept his gaze from the crown of Lancelot’s head to his knees on the stone and his smile widened just slightly.

Lancelot’s mouth went dry. Nobles didn’t traipse around in each others’ dungeons. The only one who would set foot in these dungeons was the lord himself. There wouldn’t be any opportunity for an embarrassed plea to a bored guard to keep this matter secret. There was no way to hide it. He was well and truly caught.

Before he could muster up some sort of reply or comment or… anything, the man continued. “When my man reported that there was something odd in the dungeons, I thought of a monster making a den down here or some other sort of infestation. I didn’t expect that the only thing haunting my cells was a knight. Or should I say, ‘Knight Captain’?”

“I can explain,” Lancelot said hesitantly. It was worse than he had feared. Of course it was more likely than not that a lord in the area would know Lancelot’s face and be able to pinpoint his station. He shouldn’t have expected otherwise, but somehow… he had. His cheeks were red hot from embarrassment; he’d always known this was a possibility. That was part of the thrill. But the heavy weight in his gut wasn’t pleasant, even as he felt a warm shiver down his spine. The conflicting sensations simply threw him even further off balance.

“I’d love to know how you got into those chains.” The man tilted his head, studying them. A note of wonder crept into his voice. “Did this cell even have chains like that?”

“I… brought them,” Lancelot said, the words like glass in his throat. “What happened to my… friend?”

The lord flicked a hand dismissively. “My guards chased them off. They’re fine.” Now, finally, he walked toward Lancelot. A chill went up Lancelot’s spine as the lord approached. He might have engineered this situation himself, but he had no way out of it alone. His friend would never abandon him, and he’d never seriously considered the possibility that he’d be stuck here without any help. It had been a massive oversight, he realized. The chains rattled as his muscles tensed.

“What are you planning to do?” he asked, staring up into the man’s face as he finally reached Lancelot’s side. Something warm in his stomach coiled and lashed as he asked the question; he almost wanted to fall limp in the chains and wait for whatever was to come.

The lord smiled gently down at him. “I am going to fix the problem. How do I get you out of these?”

The relief deflated him abruptly, leaving him empty and a little cold. The lord’s response didn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t face any consequences for his reckless actions, but the worst wouldn’t happen. The lord wasn’t simply going to leave him here, even if it would have been perfectly within his rights. “My friend has a key,” he mumbled.

“They’re gone. Do I need to summon a blacksmith?”

Lancelot wilted. “There’s… a key in the corner.” Would the humiliation never end? All of his clever planning seemed so puerile when he was faced with it. He never should have done this in the first place. The fact that he’d done it over a dozen times and never experienced this kind of terrible outcome was nothing more than chance. As one who prided himself on tactics, he should have known better. Risks were risks.

As the lord retrieved the key and began to work on the locks, Lancelot’s mind spun. Noisette was a small little domain just adjacent to Feendrache’s border, had a loose, friendly relationship with Dalmore, and aside from his certainty that it was small, stable, and peaceful, he didn’t know much about it. He might have seen Noisette’s lord before, but it had only been in passing. Lancelot was certain they had never been introduced.

One arm fell to his side, and he bit his lip. It always hurt, but usually the situation helped ease the pain a bit. This didn’t at all.

“Are you all right?” the lord asked solicitously as he moved to the other arm.

“I’m fine,” Lancelot replied.

The second lock clicked free and his other arm fell to his side. Lancelot’s shoulders ached terribly. He had to get up, had to move, but it was hard to convince himself to do so. He might have curled up in the center of the stone floor if he had thought he had the option. He didn’t. Pain shooting through every muscle, he placed his palms flat onto the floor and tried to ready himself to rise.

The hand on his hair caught him by surprise. It was… pleasant. Without thinking, the tension went out of him.

“Take your time,” the lord said gently.

He couldn’t. He had to leave here as soon as possible. Bad enough that he’d been caught in this situation, but to stay any longer than necessary was simply unacceptable. And yet, the warm, gentle weight on his head held him still. “I need… to go…” he forced out.

“No one is going to bother us. Feel free to take as long as you like.”

It was such an effort to fight it. The hand seemed to press him down, and he slumped. Breathing deeply and slowly, he felt the moment when the fingers lightly stirred through his hair, stroking his head. His visitor… never touched him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d craved that until this moment. The breath went out of him in a heavy sigh as he relaxed further. Exhaustion ran through him. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been down here, how long he’d been suspended. Rationally, he knew it hadn’t been more than a few hours. But right now, it felt like weeks.

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot whispered. He hadn’t said that yet.

“You’ve been a pleasant distraction.” There was humor there, but also frank honesty.

They stayed like that for several minutes before Lancelot felt the chill of the stone seeping into him once more. If his visitor had been turned away at the door, they must be terrified. He had to go to them and explain. And there was no guarantee that there wouldn’t be further consequences for his behavior. Noisette’s lord might be accommodating now, but later…?

Lancelot slowly got to his feet, and the lord stepped away, giving him space. The fingers sliding free from his hair were a last caress, one which he did his best to ignore. His cheeks were hot with embarrassment— no, humiliation. Having the possible consequences pressed on him like this made it clear that he couldn’t keep indulging this hobby of his. He had to move on. And if his needs and his position were at odds, then it was his needs which had to give. Feendrache was, and would always be, more important than he was.

“Do you need anything to get back where you belong?”

“I have a horse nearby.” And an airship, if necessary. It wouldn’t be.

“Food? Water?”

Lancelot shook his head sharply and headed for the door. His ankle turned slightly, the muscle weakened from too long in the cold, and he stumbled, but he doggedly pushed himself forward. He should be thankful that this was all the trouble he’d gotten for his foolishness.

“My name is Matis, Lancelot.”

The sound of his own name caught Lancelot short, and he hesitated in the doorway, placing a hand on the door frame to balance himself. The difference between a position and a name was truly minor, nothing to be concerned with; he was no more exposed than he had been a moment ago. And yet he felt more exposed. “Lord Matis,” he echoed. He clenched his jaw, and after a few moments, added, “Did you intend to make an issue of this after all?”

“No,” Matis replied. “After you leave, I will say not a word of this to anyone. I assure you, my guards did not recognize you.”

 _Then why?_ Lancelot’s thoughts were desperate. The name of Noisette’s lord didn’t matter. But the fact he’d been called back in such a fashion was like the creak of rusty armor. In the silence which followed, he simply waited for Matis to continue.

“I issue you an open invitation,” Matis said. “If you wish to see me, come here and you’ll be taken care of. However, the invitation is just for you. Do you understand?”

No. No, he couldn’t possibly. That didn’t mean… Lancelot shot a glance over his shoulder, but Matis’ face was in shadow. All he had to go on was the man’s tone of voice, and that was serious.

Well, fine, he thought to himself with a pained smile. There was no way that he’d take Matis up on the offer anyway.

“I understand,” he replied. “Thank you…” and he hesitated, trying to decide how to put it. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, forcing himself to bow. And then he left, with no intention to return.


	2. Chapter 2

The carefully printed text on the paperwork sitting on Lancelot’s desk undulated across the paper like a spill of ink, stretching and deforming until he couldn’t make out any sense in the words at all. It was only the monthly stipend to the knights, routine, simple… something he probably didn’t even need to look at, just stamp and move on to matters which needed his full attention. But he couldn’t even manage this. The branches on the tree outside the window of his office were whipping wildly in the unseasonably heavy winds, distracting him with the sudden whoosh as a gust passed through the leaves followed by the creaking and groaning of the wood as it struggled to bear up under the stress. The repetitive tick of the clock on the coffee table as it counted out the seconds usually didn’t even rise to the surface of his attention, but now it felt like a never-ending tap of a finger against the side of his head, harder and harder until it felt like it would wear right through the skull. The taste of the tea he had brewed to try and keep himself focused had settled on his tongue, sour and bitter from being brewed overlong.

Ruminating over numbers he couldn’t read wouldn’t get him anywhere, he decided wearily. The purser was reliable, trustworthy, and there hadn’t been a change in months. Surely this one time he could simply stamp it and move on. Maybe go outside and train… or take a walk. His gaze strayed back to the window, just in time to see the first fat raindrops smack into the window and start their dreary path down toward the sill. Not a surprise with the wind, but still disappointing. Well, he could always practice in the training hall. Or do inventory… though he’d have to recruit Vane to help, otherwise the storage room would end up a disaster area by the time he was finished.

_An open invitation._ Matis’ voice echoed in his thoughts as his mind wandered away from the task in front of him, and he shook his head, trying to rid himself of it. It had been three months since he’d been humiliated in the dungeons of Noisette, and he hadn’t gone on another excursion since. It would have been foolish to persist having experienced the possible consequences first hand. Matis had gone easy on him… there were other lords who wouldn’t have been nearly so kind. In those months Lancelot had heard neither whisper nor rumor about what had happened, even though the king had unexpectedly decided to make the first tentative steps toward a trivial trade agreement with the small little domain, and it would have been a perfect opportunity for the lord to try and capitalize on his knowledge of Lancelot’s indiscretion. Matis seemed willing to let it go.

It should have been a relief. He’d learned something from the experience: his peculiar desires were too risky to indulge. Normal people didn’t need such things. Normal was what he should strive for. Settling down with a man or woman around his own age, a partner who would understand his commitments, the late nights and the heavy workload, the public nature of his position, and the chance that he could die someday defending his king and country. Someone he could trust and rely on.

He couldn’t accept Matis’ offer. It was out of the question. What was he even expecting to happen, anyway? His heartbeat had sped up even as he thought about it, and he pushed himself up and out of the chair as if trying to convince himself that the sudden burst of energy he felt was a result of the sudden motion and not the cause of it. He had duties. He had responsibilities. The past few years of this irrational behavior had been nothing but a distraction from the things he should be doing.

A sharp rapping at the door made him pull himself back together. “Come in,” he said.

Vane burst through the door with his usual boisterous demeanor and a cheerful smile. “Lancey, I was watching some of the knights practice, and—” He hesitated mid-sentence, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Are you all right? You look flushed.”

“I’m fine,” Lancelot said, dredging up his best attempt at a smile. “What is this about the knights?”

Vane frowned as he crossed the space between them and pressed the back of his hand to Lancelot’s head before he could protest. “You have been eating properly, right? And getting enough sleep?”

“I’ve been eating your food half the time, Vane,” Lancelot said, dodging out of underneath Vane’s hand, to the side. “I said I’m fine.”

It came out more testy than he’d expected, and Lancelot saw the sudden hurt in Vane’s eyes, the way his friend drew back slightly at the rebuke.

“You haven’t gone out on one of your extended trips in a while,” Vane said hesitantly. “Maybe you just need to get out—”

It sent a sudden shot of fear through him. Of course Vane would have noticed. Lancelot had left the Knights in his friend’s hands when he’d gone on his excursions. But his throat had gone dry at the thought that Vane might know what he had been doing. “No,” he interjected, cutting Vane off before he could try and make more of a case. The absurdity of Vane encouraging him to go sneak into random lords’ dungeons almost made him laugh out loud, but he was able to stifle the impulse before it escaped him. Vane would think he was being laughed at, and he didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. “Maybe we could take a short trip away from the castle,” Lancelot offered instead, trying to defuse the situation before it got any worse. “I don’t want to be away for too long.”

Vane’s smile was, as usual, as bright as the sun. Clouds might hide its face for a while, but eventually the light would spill through, undiminished by its brief absence. “Sure!”

No matter how dark his mood, Vane never failed to brighten it. Lancelot found himself smiling back, this one a bit more genuine than the last. “Maybe next week. I was thinking of getting out of this office for a bit. Want to talk it over while we do inventory?”


	3. Chapter 3

With a sigh, Lancelot let himself fall backward, stretching his arms over his head, past the edge of the picnic blanket and into the grass beyond. The summer sun bathed him in warmth, and he sighed, satisfied, his stomach full from Vane’s lunch and his mind blessedly clear. This had been exactly what he had needed. Something clean, pure, and uncomplicated. The tension drained out of him as he lay there and stared up into the sky, the deep blue peeking out from between the white, fluffy clouds. He lifted a hand to shade his eyes from the sun, and his attention caught on how the rays spilled through his fingers. Too much time cooped up in an office with paperwork. Not enough time outside. That was his problem.

“Feeling better?” Vane asked from where he sat a few feet away.

“You were right. I needed to get away.”

Two birds darted by overhead, chirping in some sort of frantic argument as they flew. Their shadow briefly fell over Lancelot’s face as they passed, then disappeared. He could barely follow them with his gaze before they were gone as quickly as they’d appeared.

“Was it a girl?” Vane asked hesitantly. “Did you break up?”

Lancelot’s brows drew together. “Those trips?” Well… sort of. But not in any way which he thought Vane would understand. “No, it wasn’t a girl,” he said finally.

“A boy?” Vane pressed.

“It wasn’t romantic.” Those confused, frustrated feelings welled up in him again, fighting against the peacefulness inherent in the situation. Honestly, the more he talked about it, the worse he felt. What had he been thinking? Even if it hadn’t gone beyond role play, the thought chilled him. But his visitor had seemed so eager to play along. Did he bear any… yes. Yes, the blame still fell on him. And now he remembered Matis’ confident smile. The bracelets had cut into Lancelot’s wrists as he’d pulled them taut to undo the locks. The bite of the metal…

“I support you, you know?”

The words jerked him out of his memories like a chain pulling tight around his throat. He glanced at Vane, seeing the worry written on his friend’s face. It had never… it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Do you need me to talk to someone? Do something?”

No, all of this was entirely in his hands. Lancelot shook his head silently, but as the silence between them stretched out, broken only by the hushed whispering of the grass and the buzz of the cicadas, he finally opened his mouth. “I just have to decide what I want to do.”

It actually caught him by surprise. Decide? He’d already made his decision. That door was closed. He was going to live his life the way he ought, putting his duties first. Deciding otherwise was madness. It wasn’t… possible. It simply couldn’t happen. His tensed muscles relaxed as he forced them to. He didn’t need to get upset or angry or frustrated. There was no fight to be had, no struggle. He’d made his decision months ago.

Vane shifted his weight and sighed. “I can help, you know.”

Lancelot’s breath caught in his throat. “You always help me.” It came out threadbare, hoarse. Yet it was a rejection; he had no idea what Vane was suggesting, but he was certain that he didn’t want help. He flinched as Vane’s shadow fell over him, his friend peering into his face. Unsure what Vane might see in his expression, Lancelot looked away. The picnic blanket was bright in reds and whites, a cheery pattern which didn’t fit his mood. His stomach roiled with tension. Maybe he should have expected this. Vane wasn’t one to let a wound fester.

Vane sighed, leaning back and letting the sunlight fall over Lancelot’s face again. “If you really don’t want to talk about it, Lancey, I won’t push. But something happened a few months ago, when you stopped going on those trips. There’s something on your mind which you won’t talk about, and you’re spending all your time thinking about it and not talking.”

“I…” Had it been that obvious? He’d thought he’d been hiding it better. Had it been affecting his work?

“I don’t think the other knights have noticed,” Vane said, as if following his thoughts. “There have been a couple of mistakes, like leaving someone out of the duty rotation or scheduling them to be in two places at once, but nothing I couldn’t handle. You’re still better at being Captain than anyone I can think of. Okay, maybe Siegfried. It just… I’m worried. You’re not as cheerful as usual, and I want to help.”

Even as gentle as Vane was trying to be about it, it still hurt. If this was affecting his work… what was he going to do? He couldn’t simply go back to what he had been doing. It was dangerous. If it all came out into the open, he’d have to step down from his position, and it would tarnish the Knights. His only choice was…

“If it’s not romantic, and you didn’t break up with someone… maybe you should just go back to what you were doing,” Vane said. “I can cover for you if you need to leave for a few days here and there.”

…Matis.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a pleasant late summer day, not too hot, and Lancelot could tell that autumn was coming. The days were shorter and the nights longer, and occasionally the breeze carried the chill of the mountaintops along with it. Noisette was situated in a valley, but the sun was still high overhead as he walked slowly down the dirt road toward the castle. It felt strange to be approaching in the open. The last time he had crept up in the shadow of the trees to the drainage ditch in the back. For all the shield pounding of the recent years, Noisette had never been drawn into a war, and the sewer had been left unguarded, the iron grate gone rusted from the passage of time. He’d pounded the lock from the hasp with a single hard blow, the old metal shattering. If he went back there now, would a newer lock have replaced it? Or had Matis left it there as an alternative?

Was that clandestine entrance what Matis was expecting, Lancelot wondered briefly, but quickly dismissed the thought. The lord had extended an invitation. There were proprieties to be observed. A proper guest… and now he found himself smiling ruefully. What kind of a proper guest was he?

He coughed as he kicked up a particularly dusty section of road, pressing his hand to his mouth. The walls were looming larger now, and he instinctively picked out the two guards on the walls above the main gate. It was closed — obviously, Matis wasn’t expecting any deliveries. Likely no visitors, either. But as in most castles, there would be a small door in the shadow of the gate which could be used to admit those who arrived on foot. If all went well, he’d be passing through that gate.

If it all went well…

For the hundredth time since he started the journey, he questioned his own sanity. What was he expecting at the end of this trip? A brief trip into Matis’ dungeon, an exchange of banter, and then back to Feendrache, his urges satisfied? This was the first time he had visited a dungeon twice, and he hadn’t done any of his usual preparation. No researching options. No scouting the surroundings. No clandestine letter with the place to meet him and how to sneak past the guards. Perhaps it had been that which had satisfied him. Maybe he didn’t need the dungeon at all. Would this all turn out to be nothing but a disappointment, all of the excitement banished by the fact this was a sanctioned visit instead of an infiltration?

His nerves were shredded. He considered turning back, but the guards were watching him, and the last fibers of his pride drove him forward. He wondered if Matis had told them. There hadn’t been any rumors, but if Matis’ men were loyal, perhaps he had let them in on the secret. Lancelot glanced up at the top of the walls, a silly reflex. He couldn’t see their expression from here. The two of them stared down at him as he came to a stop twenty feet out from the gates, their round helmets reflecting the sun.

“State your name and why you have come,” one of the guards called down to him.

“Lancelot,” he yelled back, then hesitated. Why had he come? He wasn’t even entirely sure himself. And he certainly wasn’t going to share the embarrassing details. He licked his lips, tasting the gritty dust of the road, and yelled, “I’ve come in answer to Lord Matis’ invitation.”

It was accurate, at least.

“Wait there,” the guard called back, then retreated from the wall. The other guard stayed where he was, silent, simply watching from above.

A few minutes later, a guard emerged from the little door next to the gate. It was hard to tell, but Lancelot thought it might be the same one who had been stationed at the top of the wall — same height and build, at least, as much as he could tell when the man was dressed in full armor. The guard gestured to him. “This way, sir.” From the tenor of the voice it was indeed the same guard, though his tone was far more deferential now.

Lancelot, still full of misgivings, followed the man into the small pedestrian access. The little corridor was cramped and quiet, and there were horizontal arrow slits near the ceiling. Though he had been invited inside, the vulnerability still made his skin crawl. A crossbow bolt at this distance could easily penetrate his armor. The fact that he’d been far more vulnerable several months ago when he’d snuck into Noisette’s dungeons was small comfort.

“Lord Matis is currently indisposed,” the guard said, drawing Lancelot’s attention away from his morbid thoughts. “The chamberlain is waiting to meet you, and will address any needs you might have while you wait.”

Of course… Matis was the lord of this domain, small as it was, and it wasn’t surprising that he might be busy. “Should I return at another time?” Lancelot asked.

“He has offered you the full hospitality of his house.” The stiffness in the guard’s voice made it clear that he thought it was uncouth to suggest leaving. “You are a guest.”

They emerged into the courtyard beyond, the sunlight bathing the courtyard in a slightly orange hue as the day progressed toward evening. An elderly woman stood just outside of the shadow of the walls, her hands clasped in front of her, her skin paper thin but her dark eyes still sharp. Her clothing was constructed of a fine black linen and maroon velvet which had to be hot even with the slight chill of approaching autumn. A golden medallion glinted on her chest, the symbol of her office. The chamberlain.

“Sir Lancelot,” the woman said, offering him a slight bow. “If it pleases you, I will show you to your rooms.”

It was phrased as a request, but it was delivered as an order. Lancelot hesitated. “Rooms? I hadn’t intended to stay long.”

“If you do not stay overnight, then you may simply use them to refresh yourself and wait until Lord Matis is ready to receive you. I assure you, it is no trouble. This way, please.” A graceful sweep of the arm accompanied by a slight bow. All the appropriate signs of deference, and yet a core of iron. Perhaps it was simply that he wasn’t accustomed to making personal visits to lords. This sort of pomp and circumstance was not out of place on a state visit, but given the circumstances under which the invitation had been extended, it felt ill-suited to his situation.

Still, if Matis wished to receive him as a guest, it seemed more appropriate to go along with it. Reluctantly, Lancelot nodded, and followed after the chamberlain as she started towards the main keep.

Matis’ castle had clearly been constructed for defense, though Lancelot thought it unlikely that Noisette Castle had ever seen much combat. There were no signs of extensive repair, no difference between one stone and another — he thought that they had been likely quarried at the same time, and any replacements were also from the same period. If he remembered his history, Noisette had been established over a hundred years ago, and it showed that weathering in every brick and iron bar. The only new construction he saw was the stables, and they had been constructed of wood, not stone. Perhaps a fire or a rot had gotten into the original construction. And the servants seemed at ease, purposeful but not desperate or frightened. Near the small castle garden several men-at-arms stood in their armor, one of them engaged in retelling a story while the other two laughed loud and hearty. It reminded him of the knights, and a sudden pang of homesickness washed over him.

“Should I arrange a tour?” the chamberlain asked.

“No, it’s fine.” Lancelot’s eyes lingered on the men-at-arms, but he didn’t want to leave any more of an impression on these people than he already had.

The rooms he was shown to were almost bizarrely appointed. Fine woods, inlaid metals. The rug in the sitting room was so deep and plush that Lancelot was careful as he walked, uncomfortable with the idea of digging the dirt on his boots into the woven pile. The walls had been whitewashed and painted with delicate patterns near ceiling and floor. There were bookshelves against the wall, a large fireplace with various pieces of sculpture placed on the mantle, and a table with four luxurious chairs around it.

Beyond the main room was a bedroom, even larger, with a four-posted canopy bed covered with several thick blankets. The chest at the foot of the bed was large enough that Lancelot could store his entire wardrobe if he had brought it from Feendrache — he’d brought nothing — and there was another armoire to the side. It wasn’t the room of a Knight Captain, let alone a knight, and the sheer decadence of it made him uncomfortable. If the chamberlain already hadn’t shown such recalcitrance at his requests he would have asked for a less luxurious room, but he knew he’d simply get another disapproving look and some more commentary on the proper way to treat a guest.

Past the bedroom was a smaller room — though still unreasonably large — with a white tiled floor, a large window, and a tub set in the center. The two crystals at the edge of the porcelain tub glowed faintly in blue and red, indicating their temperature. A magical bath, then. Lancelot was familiar with them, though Feendrache didn’t use them in guest rooms. Noisette must be well off to be able to hire mages for such trivialities.

“Please feel free to refresh yourself,” the chamberlain said from behind him.

“Thank you,” Lancelot replied, turning back to her. “Should I expect Lord Matis soon?”

“I expect he will be busy until dinnertime,” the chamberlain replied. “Please relax and make yourself at home. If you need anything, there is a servant stationed in the hallway. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Lancelot shook his head, and before he could muster some sort of response, the chamberlain was already out the door. Well. That had been abrupt. He looked around the room, still feeling out of place, but he knew what was expected of him. He should freshen up before meeting with Matis; to do otherwise would be rude.


	5. Chapter 5

The bath was wonderful. Lancelot dragged himself out of the warm water with a sigh, grabbing for the towel on the rack and vigorously drying himself as he stood on the chill tiles. Walking to Castle Noisette had been dusty and dry and sweaty. The comforting feeling of being clean made him reluctant to put back on his underclothes and armor, but since he hadn’t brought anything with him, he wandered out into the main room to don it once more. However, his armor wasn’t where he had left it, laid out carefully on the floor. Lancelot’s eyes widened as he looked around: after all, it could have simply been moved. And yet it was gone, missing. He hadn’t even heard anyone come in. The relaxation of the bath must have lulled him half asleep.

After a brief, fruitless search, his gaze landed on the bed. There were clothes laid out there, a simple linen shirt of a dark blue and black trousers. Suitable for a court dinner or casual affair where armor was inappropriate. The servants must have replaced his armor while he’d been bathing. His swords had been laid out in their sheathes over the chest, but without an appropriate belt, he’d have to carry them in his hands. Unwieldy. It hinted that he shouldn’t bring them at all.

Lancelot bit his lip, glancing around the room, but if his armor was there, it had been put in some place he wouldn’t have guessed. The clothing it was, then. The fabric was smooth and soft against his skin as he donned the apparel which had been left for him. While the fabric was finer than he would have chosen himself, the cut of the clothing was acceptable. The trousers and shirt didn’t obstruct his movement. He thought he might even be able to fight in them if it became necessary.

The orange light streaming through the windows with their open shutters streamed out across the stone floor and over the rugs which covered it. It was already close to evening, and it looked like he was going to have to stay for dinner. A court dinner in an unfamiliar domain was a situation he was familiar enough with after years of practice, but his presence here was unofficial. Just attending dinner could send a message about the relationship between Feendrache and Noisette, and the political situation on the island was always changing. If Noisette had offended Damore or Wales without Lancelot’s knowledge… the whirling of his thoughts made him dizzy. Perhaps he should plead illness if they called him to a court dinner. Even the leavings would be sufficient for him. He’d dealt with far less. And then he could simply absent himself in the morning, whether or not he’d met with Matis.

The gentle, deferent rapping on the door caught his attention. “Yes?” he called.

“The lord has requested your presence at dinner,” a young female voice replied. As Lancelot drew a breath to politely decline, however, she continued. “He would like you to attend him in the drawing room, if you would.”

It threw his plan into confusion. He crossed the room and opened the door; the woman outside, while young, didn’t seem taken aback at all. “In his drawing room?” Lancelot asked.

“Yes,” she said, dipping a slight curtsy as if nervous about what protocol she should use for him. “He said to tell you that it was a private affair.”

Oh. In that case, he had little reason to refuse. His misgivings nipped at the edge of his thoughts — he shouldn’t have come here, even for all Vane had encouraged it. There were so many things which could go wrong. But when all was said and done, he had accepted Matis’ invitation and stood in his castle. Even if Lancelot had changed his mind, it would be rude to hide in the room and scurry out the next morning without exchanging a single word with his host. He could simply be straightforward during dinner. It might be awkward, but there was no reason it had to go any further than that.

“Would you like me to show you the way?” the woman asked.

“Please. Thank you.” Lancelot smiled, trying to present as friendly a face as he could. “Oh, I did have one question. Do you happen to know where my armor went?”

The woman blinked in surprise, then indicated a door he hadn’t gone through. “I hung it up in the closet for you. It didn’t seem like it would be appropriate attire for dinner… unless it’s customary?”

Ah. He hadn’t had a chance to check behind the one door. Given the decadence of the room as a whole, he had figured they were the manservant’s chambers and left them alone. Feeling a little foolish at how relieved he felt knowing where his armor was, Lancelot nevertheless gave her a small nod. “Thank you. No, these clothes will be fine.”

Once he’d declined the tour, the chamberlain had marched through the hallways so fast he’d barely been able to do more than build a mental map of the path between his room and the exit, but the servant who had come to fetch him was in much less of a hurry, and Lancelot felt free to look around him as they walked. For all its external defensive structures, the interior of the keep had been lavishly appointed. The rug down the center of the stone hallways was so thick that he could barely hear his own footsteps, and only a scant couple of inches had been left of bare corridor to the sides. The hallways were lit with magelights in abundance. He remembered them being brighter before, but it was difficult to tell whether it was simply the diffuse light from the outside fading as night fell, or whether the lights had been set to react somehow to the passage of time. Abstract tapestries decorated most of the walls, preventing the stone from echoing, and helping to keep the space warm. At all the T-intersections he passed there was a painting on the wall, sometimes a landscape, sometimes a person, but all exquisitely rendered. His reconnaissance hadn’t covered this part of the castle. He smiled ruefully to himself; it was a far cry from the dungeons, which were dry and well-maintained, but obviously not decorated.

“Have you been in Lord Matis’ service long?” he asked when he felt the silence had become uncomfortable.

“My parents served his parents before me, and my grandparents served his.” The pride in her voice was clear. “Noisette has a tradition of service.”

“What sort of lord would you say he is?” He didn’t know much about Matis. He hadn’t seriously expected to be caught; all he had to go on was that brief interaction. Thinking on it now, he should have done more research after he had returned. His fear that his secret would get out had distracted him, and it hadn’t seemed worthwhile to pursue Matis’ character. If Matis was the sort who would accuse him, it would happen regardless of what Lancelot did. In fact, investigating too seriously could simply bring the lord’s ire down on him. And then Vane’s determined pushing had sent him out before he’d thought through the matter fully.

Lancelot caught the moment she hesitated, the slight drag of her soles against the floor as her thoughts interfered with the rote motion of walking. Did she think he was prying?

“A fine lord, but he prefers to keep his secrets,” she said primly, her spine stiff.

It was a delicate question, then. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

A bit of the tension left her shoulders. “Nothing bad, you understand. But we’re a small country, and we have to get by as we must.” Her voice went slightly distant. “Some people don’t understand that.” Then firmly. “But we keep all our secrets. That’s why he’s meeting you in the drawing room. No one will mention you were here.”

Relief and curiosity mixed in him. Discretion wasn’t a bad trait to have, though it did make Lancelot wonder what ‘getting by as they must’ meant. “Thank you.”

They had crossed half the width of the keep by the time the serving woman stopped by a fine wooden door. After a brief glance at Lancelot, the woman opened the door. “Your guest is here, my lord.”

The room beyond the door was small and intimate, the size of a sitting room, but it had been set for a dinner service. The fine cherry wood table in the center of the room seemed out of place for a drawing room, but it was all beautiful lines, a warm glow from the lacquered surface in the sunset-tinged light which seeped between the slats on the window shutters. In the center of the table sat a basket of bread and a dish of butter, and the table was laid for dinner, the silverware placed precisely around the two plates. There were only two matching wood chairs across the table from each other, leaving the impression that the room had been prepared specifically for this purpose. Matis sat in one of them. Two leisure chairs, empty, covered in soft black fabric and stuffed for comfort sat against the right wall, turned a quarter turn toward each other. The rug covering the floor was thinner than the one in the hall or in his rooms, but the weave on it was tight, the threads forming intricate colored geometric patterns in blue and green across a canvas of black. On the left wall stood two large bookshelves, which caught Lancelot’s attention immediately, distracting him for a moment from Matis. But eventually his gaze returned, a little reluctantly, to his host.

Lancelot was a little surprised by the changes in the lord since he’d seen him in the dungeon. It was probably a matter of the lighting, but while Matis had a refinement in the bone structure of his face, there was a hint of softness in the chin and cheeks that had been hidden by the dungeon’s dim lighting. It made him seem more approachable. He wore a rich green shirt so dark it shimmered with hints of a midnight blue, with delicate black embroidery around the neck and wrists. It was a mirror of the rug beneath their feet, and while recognizing that the taste of the owner tended to influence both clothing and interior decoration, it struck him as absurd for a moment that Matis matched the decor so perfectly. However, the gaze of Matis’ hazel eyes as they swept over Lancelot was straightforward and frank, quelling the humor in the situation. It felt probing, as if Matis wasn’t sure to expect from him. Perhaps he found Lancelot as much a surprise under these different circumstances as Lancelot found him.

Lancelot caught the surreptitious bow from the servant who had brought him out of the corner of his eye, and then she vanished, gently closing the door behind her and leaving the two of them together.

“I hope this visit isn’t an inconvenience,” Lancelot said, his throat dry.

“Of course not,” Matis said, the faint tension in his expression relaxing as he broke into a smile, lightly teasing. “I extended you an open invitation. You haven’t brought any guests this time?”

Embarrassment mixed with Lancelot’s nerves. No one knew he was here. He could disappear into this place without a hint of where he had gone. But that had been the one restriction Matis had placed on his invitation, and to inform anyone of where he was visiting without saying who or why would have just left them bubbling with questions. “I came alone.”

“Good. Don’t just stand there, please take a seat. My men said you came on foot? I hope you didn’t encounter any trouble on the way here.”

“No, it was quite peaceful; I didn’t even hear a monster call on the way,” Lancelot said as he took the empty seat at the table. Matis took a roll from the bread bowl and began to butter it, and Lancelot reflexively followed him. Dark green flecks dotted the soft butter, some sort of herb which Lancelot didn’t immediately recognize. It spread easily over the crust of the bread. “I only did the last stretch into the valley on foot. I took an airship most of the way from Feendrache.”

“Oh, via Menton? The town has grown quite a bit since they built the port there. In fact, the herbs in this butter come from another island. We only started to be able to get it in recently.”

Matis continued to gently ply him with small talk as they ate, discussing the weather, the local monster patterns, amusing anecdotes from his last visit to the court of Damore, and eliciting gossip about Feendrache, both the castle and the town around it. Lancelot found himself relating the story of their experience with Bistro Feendrache as the meal progressed and the tension left him. All of his trepidation about this visit faded like smoke as night fell outside and the magelights in the room brightened to fill the gap. Perhaps it was simply that Lancelot had no responsibilities here and no position to constrain him, but Matis was far easier to deal with than most of the nobles Lancelot worked with on a day to day basis. Nobility was common among the knights, though they rarely spent long in the Order if they were the heir to their domain, but Lancelot had long since grown used to the stiff etiquette which tainted all his interactions with them. Matis showed no signs of that.

The courses progressed from appetizers to soup, to fish and meat, and finally to dessert. Lancelot sipped delicately at the dessert wine. He could tell it was potent by the taste, and while the wine already served with dinner had done a fair bit to soften his strict adherence to etiquette, he didn’t want to completely lose himself. It was already hard to keep his mind firmly on the decisions he’d made before he came here. Don’t pursue too deeply. Don’t accept more than what is offered. Maintain the social rules and expectations of his position. The best outcome was for Matis to give this up entirely. Absent an acceptable outlet, surely even these irregular desires must fade. That was what Lancelot had told himself.

Matis’ fingers delicately swirled the dessert wine in the glass, his hazel eyes apparently captivated by the motion of the liquid as he spoke. “So. Is this simply a social visit? Or were you expecting something more?”

Even hearing the topic so delicately addressed set Lancelot’s heart racing. This was a matter of Feendrache. A matter of the Knights. If confronted, the answer was simple: “No.”

And yet, Matis simply smiled. “No? No, this isn’t a social visit? Or no, you weren’t expecting anything more?”

Lancelot could feel Matis’ words encircling him like a trap. “I am simply visiting for dinner,” he said, delicately avoiding Matis’ pursuit.

“Hmm… well, fair enough. If you don’t desire another visit to the dungeon, I can be nothing more than a friend to you. Then let’s readdress the issue. Is there anything which concerns you right now? Something which you wish resolved?”

The tactical move was obvious, and Lancelot drew back, entrusting his back to the chair and trying to force himself to relax. If Matis wanted something from him, the lord would have pursued in in other ways. This wasn’t blackmail. At worst it was a form of teasing. He should address it from those prerequisites. He wasn’t making a large comment, nor trying to enlist Noisette’s aid for Feendrache. He could… simply be himself. In the midst of his wavering feelings, he let out a long, low sigh of frustration. “I don’t know why I came back. I knew it was a mistake. But Vane just persisted…”

His tongue was a slippery, evasive thing, saying things he didn’t want to say. The edges of everything in the room seemed… softened. Had he drunk so much of the wine that he’d grown muddled? What an embarrassment. He laid his hands on the table. He’d need its support to stand, but he still remembered the way back to his room... he thought. “I should go.”

“Stay.”

Even, calm, and yet an order none the less. Matis had no right to order Lancelot around, but he still felt his resolve weaken in the face of the lord’s confidence. Lancelot hesitantly lifted his gaze to meet Matis’, unsure of what he would find there.

“I’m not going to pounce on you,” Matis said with a laugh. “I simply don’t want your journey to be wasted. If you leave now, we’ll never talk. I know we are practically strangers, connected by such a ridiculous coincidence, but you came here for a reason. Why?”

“I stopped. I had to. What happened made me realize the risks.” Bad enough that he had risked both his own position and the standing of Feendrache, but his visitor had been in danger as well, wrapped into Lancelot’s games with little appreciation for how precarious their position was. “But… I can’t concentrate. My performance of my duties is dismal. Vane… my Vice Captain… he’s even noticed. I thought it would pass with time, but it has been months, and it has only gotten worse.”

Matis leaned back, relaxing into the chair as he clasped his hands in his lap. “Why did you start in the first place?”

The memory flashed across the surface of his thoughts like lightning, but the feeling of Isabella’s fingers on his chin still lingered after he swept the thought away with all the force he had in him. He had been terrified for Feendrache and angry at Isabella, and also, he supposed, angry at himself for letting it happen. But there had been a few times when his thoughts had twisted away from the reality he had been faced with and he’d sought refuge in a different interpretation of the situation. A fantasy. Where it wasn’t Isabella, but someone else. Someone who could grasp some piece of him he’d never known was there and draw it to the surface. The feeling of utter helplessness and yet the security of knowing it wouldn’t be used against him. Isabella had… violated that, over and over.

Truthfully, it had given him more of an appreciation of his relationship with Vane. That fundamental trust was something he treasured between them. But… he shook his head, a sudden ache in his chest. He couldn’t do this to Vane. His friend would try to understand, but this would trouble him. Lancelot didn’t fear Vane finding out about this because he thought Vane would betray him, he did it because Vane would be hurt by it.

With a start, Lancelot remembered where he was, lifting his gaze from the shimmering surface of the table where it had wandered while he hadn’t been paying attention. The room was pleasantly warm, like a cocoon of blankets. Matis was watching him patiently.

He shouldn’t talk about it. But he had to talk about it sometime. He wasn’t having any luck figuring it out on his own. His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth as he began to speak. “Several years ago… someone I trusted betrayed me.” Lancelot’s gaze fixed on Matis’ eyes for a second, but the lord didn’t say a word. It was hard to look at someone while he was talking, so Lancelot looked back down at the wine glass in his hands. There were only a few swallows left, and he took one of them for fortification before continuing. “She locked me up in… in Feendrache’s dungeons. I think I must have gone mad.” That was the only explanation, wasn’t it? That his senses had left him? That raw confession burned in his throat as he hesitated. He’d never admitted it before, but that was the fear. That he was no longer fit to serve as Captain. That this was just… the first signs of madness. Before it got worse.

“How long were you down there?”

The question caught Lancelot off guard. “Three or four days, maybe?” he hedged.

Matis was no longer looking at Lancelot, his attention apparently absorbed by the shuttered window and the light which danced across it from the lamps. “Did anything happen while you were down there?”

Lancelot’s breath caught in his throat. “No,” he said with a forced laugh. “Nothing like that. Nothing… nothing serious.” Isabella might have wanted it, but she hadn’t gotten a chance. And he… even with how messed up he’d been, he didn’t think he would have been able to oblige. The room felt like it was spinning around him. He’d had too much of the wine. “I should go. Thank you for dinner,” he said.

There weren’t arms on the chair, so his first attempt to stand up was an undignified hop and a fall back into the seat. As he sat there, trying to figure out how he was going to get to his feet when he wasn’t even feeling steady sitting down, he heard the whisper of wood against the plush rug as Matis got up from the table. Lancelot’s face heated as he realized the other man was going to try to help him up, which would be an embarrassing end to the evening, but when he offered his hand for the lord to pull him up, Matis grabbed his wrist instead, pressing it back against his shoulder, his arm pinned in place. Moments later, the other one followed.

His heart was racing, pounding in his chest. Even drunk he could fight Matis off, though the consequences… he didn’t even want to think about them. It could turn into a major incident. He steeled himself, ready to respond if Matis tried anything further, but all he did was hold Lancelot’s arms in place and lean in until his face was barely more than an inch or two away. Those hazel eyes were lit like fire in the lamplight.

“What do you feel right now?” Matis asked, his fingers tightening slightly where they were wrapped around Lancelot’s wrists. The cloth had bunched under Matis’ grip and dug into Lancelot’s skin, stirring up his memories like mud from the bottom of a stagnant pool.

“Let go of me.” Lancelot’s voice sounded rough to his own ears, his politeness falling away as familiar, uncomfortable feelings swelled inside of him. The muscles in his bicep tensed as he instinctively fought the grip holding him pinned, but he was also fighting himself, trying to avoid shoving the man back with all of his strength.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Tell me what you feel.”

His visitor hadn’t touched him like this. There had been trivial forms of affection, hugs, grasped hands. But it had always been clear, set roles, the unauthorized visitor and the helplessly ensnared prisoner. Matis was playing the captor, and it woke… woke things he had forgotten. A tightness in his thighs. And his cock, struggling against the tight fabric of his pants. The sensation hadn’t quite graduated to pain yet, but it wanted to go places the pants wouldn’t let it. “Let me go,” he said, more desperate now.

Matis sighed and shook his head. “Say ‘stop.’”

“Stop?” It was less a request and more an echo born of confusion, but the second Lancelot’s lips closed on the end of the word Matis backed off. Lancelot nearly knocked the chair over as he backpedaled, trying to get away, but the lord wasn’t pursuing him. Matis simply stood there next to the table, and as Lancelot watched he placed his palm flat on the surface. There was tension in his posture as if he wanted to move closer, but he stood where he was, his face turned down to stare at the lamp.

Lancelot’s entire body was throbbing with the beat of his heart, and he swallowed. Knocking the chair over… an overreaction. He didn’t understand what had happened in that minute when Matis had advanced on him, but the lord had seemed calm and focused. For all he’d grabbed Lancelot’s hands and caused him some discomfort, there hadn’t been any threat there. Why Matis hadn’t let up when Lancelot had first demanded it, but then immediately subsided the second Lancelot had said ‘stop’… none of it made any sense to him. He was simply left with the feeling that he’d made some mistake he couldn’t put his finger on.

“I apologize for my behavior. Do you need me to call someone to escort you back to your room?” Matis asked. There was more regret than apology in his tone, and that, too, was a mystery.

“I’ll be fine,” Lancelot replied. He felt shaky, but his mind was clearer now that he’d moved. He remembered the way back to his room. Mostly.

“Don’t restrain yourself on my account,” Matis said with a bit of humor.

The word choice had been deliberate, Lancelot knew. “I’ll be fine,” he repeated, and left.


	6. Chapter 6

The light had turned into knives and was stabbing him in the eyes. Lancelot rolled over, throwing his arm over his face and wincing as the motion only stirred up more of his headache. His stomach roiled, his mouth was both coated with some sour substance and dry as the desert, and he felt like he’d barely slept. He groaned and yanked the blanket up over his head. At least that blocked out all of the light, not just the half of it that his arm had managed, but the thick blanket barely let any air in and after a few seconds he felt like he was suffocating. He struggled to figure out how he might be able to use the blanket to block the light without covering his nose and mouth with it, but with a reluctant sigh, he threw it off and sat up. Lying around wasn’t going to improve anything. He needed to gather his things and go. He should catch the next airship back to Feendrache, and there were hours between here and the port.

He hadn’t indulged this much in years, not since he had been a young knight trying to fit in with his fellows. Leaning forward, he pressed his fingers against his temples. The conversation early in the meal had been so engaging that he hadn’t watched his glass closely enough. How much of the bottle had he finished? It hadn’t tasted that strong. But it had let him relax, and talk, and then the discussion had taken that peculiar turn at the end…

The feel of Matis’ fingers digging into his wrists. Those intense hazel eyes. And the memories of what had happened to him and what he’d done over the intervening years.

He shook his head, dizziness assaulting him. Well, whatever he had expected to find when he had come here, it hadn’t been that. Vane might be right that he needed something, but this wasn’t it. He lurched out of bed, dragging half the sheet off with him, his stomach gurgling as he took his first few unsteady steps across the rug. His toes dug into the nap and he barely kept himself up. Getting back to the port was going to be an adventure. Perhaps he could beg a potion off of someone. The thought was humiliating, but so was being caught after having chained yourself up in someone else’s dungeon. Needing a hangover cure was hardly the most embarrassing thing which had happened to him in these walls.

It took him a few moments to dredge up the memory of asking where his armor had been put. The closet, she’d said, and there was a large, carved dark oak wardrobe in the corner. Lancelot crossed the room, growing steadier on his feet even as his head began to pound, and opened the door. The inside had been fitted with a mannequin suitable for holding armor, and his armor was right there. With a sigh, he reached out a hand, touching the shoulder plate. His gaze fell to the buckles. It had been designed to be put on alone, but it wasn’t easy. He glanced down at his hands, which felt weak as he clenched them into fists and then released them.

The sooner he started, the sooner he’d finish, he told himself, and reached for the chest plate. If he wasn’t planning on coming back, he could hardly walk out of here with Matis’ clothes on his back.

The knock at the door startled him, and he turned around without thinking. The room spun and his eyes unfocused, acid creeping up his throat and painting his mouth in a bitter wash. He swallowed several times in an attempt to calm his stomach. A second knock, slightly louder, informed him that he’d taken too long to respond. Laying a hand on his stomach, he shook his head carefully and swallowed one more time, then asked, his voice rough, “Yes?”

“I’ve brought a tonic for you.”

The voice was male. Muffled by the door, it sounded familiar, but Lancelot couldn’t place it. But if Matis had told one of his servants to bring a tonic for him… well, his overindulgence had hardly been subtle. Lancelot’s cheeks were burning as he said, “Come in.”

A few moments passed between his invitation to enter and when the door opened. And when the door finally did swing open, Lancelot was tempted to tell the man to turn around and leave. It was Matis, holding a silver tray in one hand with a glass flute on it. Matis gave him a rueful, amused smile as he entered. “Your tonic?” He stopped short of offering the mocking honorific, but Lancelot could sense it waiting around the corner of the other man’s words. If he could have taken it back, he would have done so. Instead, he pressed his humiliation down as far as he could and met Matis near the door, taking the flute off the tray.

“I didn’t mean to put you out,” he said hesitantly. “Thank you.”

“I should have realized you wouldn’t be at your best.” Matis inclined his head toward the flute.

He had to say it. Putting it off wouldn’t get him anything. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I can’t possibly impose on you any further. I’ll be taking my leave as soon as I’ve gathered my things.”

Matis tucked the tray under his arm and nodded. “Did I come on too strong, then?”

“No. No, of course not. I just realized…” His words grew muddled — how could he explain it when he didn’t even understand it himself? But he knew it was wrong. “I realized that perhaps I was looking for the wrong thing.” Noncommittal. Nonjudgmental. This was entirely a problem with him.

“Hmm,” Matis murmured under his breath. “Well, I can’t stop you, but there aren’t any more airships leaving today.” As Matis took in Lancelot’s surprise, he smiled. “We really are in the middle of nowhere, Sir Knight Captain. I’d be delighted to extend my hospitality further, but if you insist on leaving, I won’t stop you. I would simply point out that a port with no airships is a poor place to rest.”

The tonic had already begun to soothe his stomach, but it had not yet done anything for his headache. How was he supposed to respond to that? Matis couldn’t be lying, could he? No… now that the lord mentioned it, Lancelot dimly remembered something about “intermittent service” and “no more than a single departure daily.” He’d even noted it when he’d passed through. Feendrache was considered by some a bit of a backwater, but even they had daily airships out of their main port. But Noisette, quiet, barely more than a handful of towns and a castle protecting a single valley, they certainly wouldn’t need multiple daily airships. He should have considered it remarkable that they received regular airship visits at all. It was likely due to the other populated areas nearby — there were two large cities within carriage distance of the port. But… he glanced at the window, noting the bright light. What Matis was really saying was that the airship had left already. He sighed, trying to dredge up a measured response. He had planned for a few days, just in case anything had disrupted his journey. Vane would be fine… but…

“Then perhaps I will stay another night,” Lancelot said, trying to be as gracious as he could manage in his defeat. “If it wouldn’t be a bother.”

“Of course. As long as you would like. The airship tomorrow will leave before noon, and you might find it difficult to reach in time unless you leave before dawn, but the one the day after tomorrow will leave in the evening.” Matis smiled, and added, “I mean it. Please stay as long as you wish.”

Lancelot felt… outmaneuvered, even though all of his decisions had been his own. He could have familiarized himself with the schedules more closely, could have indulged less in the wine at dinner, but he hadn’t seen a reason to do either. He wasn’t trapped here. In fact, as rude as it might be, he could evade Matis for the rest of the time he was here. The vicious pounding of his head had begun to ease now, but he could still plead illness… or simply demur when asked if he would share dinner with the lord that evening. The invitation might not even come. Matis surely had other business to attend to.

Those patient, hazel eyes were tinted with an edge of humor.

…or perhaps not. Lancelot could be contrary and state he was leaving tomorrow, but with no good reason for doing so, and the dangers of the nighttime road, it would be sensible to leave two days hence. As Matis had already planned out. “Then perhaps the day after next, if you would be so kind.”

Matis nodded, and while he looked satisfied, it wasn’t overbearing. Rather like Percival after he’d made a point. “If the tonic has helped settle your stomach, perhaps you would join me for lunch? Perhaps after a walk.” Some of Lancelot’s worries must have shown on his face, for Matis raised a hand. “We can discuss whatever you like. I won’t press.”

“I could use some fresh air,” Lancelot admitted. Matis had said lunch… was it really that late in the day? It was hard to tell. “Would you… give me a few minutes? I had just awoken when you knocked.” An awkward thing to ask of his host, but he needed to at least wash his face and change clothing. He’d practically fallen into bed last night, and… thinking about it, he had to present quite the disheveled picture. Vane would be horrified. Not surprised, but horrified.

Those hazel eyes twinkled, and Matis pressed his lips together as if biting back some comment, but then shook his head. “Of course, of course. I’ll leave a servant to bring you to me when you’re finished. Take your time.”

“Thank you,” Lancelot said, inclining his head.


	7. Chapter 7

Several minutes later, Lancelot emerged from the bathroom, his hair still wet. He ran his fingers through it uncomfortably, sure he should have dried it further, but he didn’t want to keep Matis waiting too long. He changed into one of the outfits he’d found hung in the wardrobe next to his armor, a white shirt and dark blue trousers which matched his colors. They fit as well as the first set he’d worn. It made him faintly uneasy. Were these lucky guesses? Had Matis picked out his measurements from that brief encounter in the dungeons? Or had he researched the matter after Lancelot had left? They felt new, still creased from the iron and showing no signs of wear. It was possible that Matis kept clothing in a wide variety of measurements and the chamberlain had simply stocked the room when Lancelot had showed up, but it felt strange that the clothing was in his colors, fit him perfectly, and was also new.

It was also convenient, he had to admit, as he hadn’t brought any other clothes. He’d planned this entire visit poorly. His vague plan of coming here, meeting with Matis, and then leaving as quickly as he had come, hadn’t panned out at all. Part of it lay in the fact he didn’t typically take scheduled airships these days, or if he did, other people made the arrangements. The last time, and on his other… excursions… he’d caught a ride with his friend. He smiled ruefully. Perhaps this was a good educational experience. A reminder of where he had come from.

He tugged on the sleeve nervously before leaving the room.

Matis was waiting outside, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He flashed a smile at Lancelot as he emerged.

“Weren’t you going to leave a servant?” Lancelot asked, embarrassed at the thought he’d kept the lord waiting.

“I decided that I’d rather stay myself. It can be hard to get a moment alone to think, and I treasure the ones I can manage to find. Shall we?”

Lancelot inclined his head, and Matis pushed off the wall, strode over to him and slid an arm around his shoulders. His entire spine tensed, but however uncomfortable he felt at the familiarity implied in the gesture, Matis had hardly offered him any harm. But if this was the man’s idea of “not pressing”, he had a different frame of mind from Lancelot’s. But he let himself be tugged into motion as Matis took off down the hallway.

“Did you get a chance to appreciate the art as you were on your way to dinner last night?” Matis asked breezily as they walked.

Lancelot’s eyes flicked to the nearest painting. It was all black and violet and blue, impressionistic. Moonlight streamed through a window and over the upturned face of a young man, lines of darkness like bars across his cheeks where the lead between the panes interrupted the light. The oddest thing was the man’s expression, longing, distant, and hopeful. But with the theme of the painting, there was something missing there. No despair. The rest of it was a riot of dark colors that served to do nothing but convey an impression that it was half-finished.

Had Matis intended to draw his attention specifically to this painting, Lancelot wondered. It was the only piece hung nearby in the hallway, so yes. And none of the rest of the art he’d seen had been so… topical.

“I did,” Lancelot replied, deciding to ignore the entire sally. “I’m impressed by the number of beautiful pieces you’ve managed to collect here.”

Matis gestured to it. “This one is mine, actually. I try to dabble from time to time. What do you think?”

“Would you like me to comment on the skill, or the topic?” Even as he said it he knew the comment was tinged with acid, but Matis only smiled wider.

“Would you like to comment on the topic?”

“You have a fine hand for detail,” Lancelot replied, ignoring Matis’ bait entirely. “How long have you been painting?”

Matis shrugged. “Since I was a teenager, perhaps? My parents wanted to keep me engaged. They thought of me as a troublesome child.”

Now that was something he could imagine. Lancelot carefully controlled his expression. “Did they choose it for you, then?”

Matis shook his head with a smile. “They offered me a few options, but I took to painting the best. It gave me space to explore my inner landscape — understand what I felt, what I wanted.” He looked at the piece they had been discussing with an appraising air. “I have learned that artists do their best work when they are inspired to create. Forcing yourself to produce brings only frustration and dissatisfaction.”

That seemed something worth being unpacked, but did he really want to pry under these circumstances?

“Does your friend truly wish to play your games with you?” Matis asked suddenly.

The question came out of nowhere. “They’ve never complained. I think… they find it fun to pretend.”

“And do you find that satisfying?”

Lancelot shot him a look. “I thought you weren’t going to pry.”

Matis held his hands up as if caught, his eyes sparkling merrily. “I did say that, didn’t I? I apologize for my rudeness. Let us continue, then. I promise to behave. Do you have much art in Feendrache?”

Lancelot furrowed his brows. “Haven’t you visited before?”

“I have, but I’m afraid I wasn’t given an opportunity to tour the castle. What I saw was impressive, of course, but it was only the items displayed in the main hall. I doubt that King Carl would have decorated only the public areas, but… you do understand. I am a curious sort of person.”

“We do have quite a collection, actually…” Lancelot began, and launched into an explanation of the art he had seen in Feendrache Castle. King Carl, for all of his virtues, didn’t pay much attention to art, but King Josef had been obsessed with it, and it showed in the castle’s collection. Lancelot had looked through it in his free time, figuring it made sense to understand it as well as a layman could. He knew that Siegfried had spent hours in those halls, and it drew Lancelot to follow suit. He’d learned of the country’s history and legends from studying those pieces. Feendrache was orthodox. Landscapes. Still lifes. Portraits. Scenes of significant battles or events in the country’s history. All of them were exactly what they seemed to be. But here, the art that Matis had displayed — that he had created, in some cases — gave Lancelot a different sort of feeling entirely. Even the paintings which seemed obvious had touches that drew his attention. Why was the noblewoman in the full body portrait wearing only a single black glove? Why did the shadows underneath the tablecloth in the painting of the dining room draw his eye so? And these questions were aside from the ones in the other paintings that Matis had done himself, which were evocative and confusing, done in a style Lancelot was unfamiliar with.

But for all the odd feelings these paintings dredged up from within him, he found himself relaxing again as they talked. The art seemed to suit this castle and the people in it. And while the paintings always hid something unexpected, he began to catch onto the tricks in them as well. It was as if the paintings were layered twice — first, the obvious, plain subject of the painting; then something beneath it, an item out of place, a color or shadow which didn’t belong; then finally, the realization that if you looked at the painting a different way that it all made sense. There was something in the shadows, but the face hidden there wore a genuine smile. The shadow which seemed out of place was exactly where it should be if you interpreted the image around it as a coffer full of gems instead of just another geometric pattern woven in the rug.

Matis’ paintings were different, however. If there was a trick there, he couldn’t see it. They appeared to be the only art in the castle which was exactly as it seemed. And that drew his eye even more. An outstretched hand, reaching for something out of view. An androgynous figure sitting against a wall, loosely holding their knees to their chest, their face hidden in the shadows. There was always something missing in the images. Something absent that should be there.

As they crossed out of the main hall with its gilt and decor and out into the bright sunlight, Lancelot asked, “What are you looking for?”

It had been a bad idea to ask that question at that moment, with his eyes sun-blinded. Matis stopped and turned to face him, but Lancelot couldn’t catch his first expression, and by the time the glint had cleared from them, Matis was giving him that same enigmatic smile. “Many things. You, for example.”

“Because of my affliction?”

“Because of your nature.” Matis’ response was sharp and immediate on the heels of Lancelot’s question. But then he took a step back and spread his hands. “My apologies. We weren’t going to talk of such things, were we?”

Lancelot frowned. “No, we weren’t.” And it was worse now, in public. The courtyard was bustling with servants and men-at-arms going about their duties in the bright noon sunlight. The chatter of daily life would probably hide the details of their discussion, but he felt exposed. Matis was the lord of the castle and Lancelot a reclusive visitor. He could feel the eyes on him; not rude enough to stare, but curious enough to glance and wonder. His thoughts, however, stubbornly clung to one word. “What do you mean by my ‘nature’?”

Matis tilted his head. “You think that you’re alone in these feelings you have, but that isn’t the case. They are uncommon, but not rare.”

“It’s an unhealthy way of dealing with what I experienced. I’m not naive.”

“Hmm. Perhaps.” Matis looked around. “If you are willing to discuss this after all, we should probably relocate. I trust the discretion of everyone here, but I doubt you want to discuss this in front of them, no matter what assurances I give you.”

“No,” Lancelot admitted reluctantly.

Matis lifted the basket in his hand. “I promised you a picnic. That should be private enough.”

The gate had been left open wide today, a couple of guards standing to either side of it who nodded to Matis as the two of them passed through the gate side by side. They didn’t seem concerned that Matis was leaving the protection of the castle without an escort, a detail Lancelot found peculiar. King Carl never went outside unaccompanied by a small detachment of knights to protect his person. It was simply the political reality of his position. Castle Noisette was over a mile away from the closest town, surrounded by fields and forest, but that didn’t make it safe. Monster incursions could happen anywhere. Some towns were assaulted daily and relied on strong militias to keep their populace safe — or a populace well able to protect itself, like the city of Albion. Perhaps the castle ran regular patrols to keep the area clear, or perhaps…

“Do you have any skill with the blade?” Lancelot asked as they struck off the road, heading west to where a large field stretched out from the wall.

“Not in the sense you mean, at least,” Matis replied with a laugh. “You needn’t fear being attacked. I have a regular contract with a mage to set up a barrier near the castle. It might have difficulty fending off the attack of something large, but we would have warning if a monster like that was in the area. You won’t need your weapons.”

“We aren’t going far, then,” Lancelot said, relaxing slightly.

“Just far enough for a bit of privacy.” Matis glanced up at the walls. “And my men will be on watch. They’ll call out if they see something approaching.”

The only flowers left in the field were the pale pastel strawflowers common in late summer, and the grass had a bit of a dry rustle underfoot as they walked. On the far side, a few of the trees in the forest line had leaves tinged yellow, early starters into fall. But what startled Lancelot most was the sense of peace he felt in this place. Noisette felt carved away from the world, as if someone had dug space out for it and then forgotten it existed. The last several years had been tumultuous for the world. Feendrache had undergone its trials, but beyond that there had been the chaos surrounding the fall of the Erste Empire and the rise and fall of its successor, major disturbances on several islands, and the matter of the Calamity and the subsequent fall of Etemenanki. None of it seemed to have touched Noisette.

“How about here?” Matis asked, stopping at a point where the land began to fall off into a gentle slope. Lancelot joined him, staring off toward the forest. Where the slope settled back into flat fields, the ground was cut with a meandering creek. A board bridged it at the point closest to them, though Lancelot thought he could likely jump it with a running start.

“This is fine. Did you need any help?” Lancelot asked as Matis set the basket down and pulled the folded sheet off the top.

“Grab the other side, if you would,” Matis replied, shaking the cloth out.

They set up the rest of the picnic in silence, Matis handing Lancelot items from the basket and Lancelot laying them out. A loaf of bread, already cut into slices, and meat and cheese. Jam for later, and a chilled bottle of fruit juice. Simple food, with no alcohol. Embarrassment flooded Lancelot at the thought of his behavior this morning and the night before, but he let it pass without remark. His stomach grumbled as he sat down cross-legged on the blanket. If Vane had been preparing this, the flavors and food presented would have been more complicated. The thought of his friend caught him off guard, and he felt a pang in his heart. Vane was covering for him even now, and he was wasting his time eating lunch with the man whose castle he had invaded, making no progress at all. If he could simply sweep his mind free of these twisted desires he could return with a settled heart and a renewed sense of purpose. And yet nothing he did seemed to provide him the clarity he sought.

“You look thoughtful,” Matis said, taking a bit of the bread and sliced meat and putting together a simple sandwich with it.

“If this isn’t unusual, there has to be a way to fix it,” Lancelot said, leaving his hands on his lap where they were. The sweet scent of the opened jars was tantalizing, but the thought of eating made his stomach twist. “So… how do I fix this?”

Taking a large bite of the sandwich, Matis shrugged. He chewed slowly and swallowed. “You don’t. You manage it. Which you seemed to be doing a fine job of, aside from the fact you were using other people’s dungeons without permission. …I wasn’t your first, was I?”

Lancelot shook his head, too embarrassed to speak.

“You seemed practiced at it. As did your friend.” Matis leaned back on one arm, staring up at the sky above. “Do you find it unpleasant? Frightening? Nauseating?”

“It…” Lancelot hesitated. It should feel bad, shouldn’t it? After all, it did remind him of Isabella’s dungeons. But that wasn’t what he felt. When he played out these scenarios with his friend it was exhilarating. What fear he felt felt… safe. There had always been the risk of being caught in the act, but he trusted his friend to come for him, and if the worst happened… while his position meant being caught would be more embarrassing, it was also a shield. No one whose dungeons he had borrowed was likely to keep him there, nor would they kill him for trespassing. He hadn’t correctly quantified the risks — hadn’t seriously thought that he’d ever be caught. But even now, cognizant of the risks, the fact his reputation could be destroyed, that he might have to step down from his position, or that Feendrache’s honor could be implicated, he didn’t feel terrified. All he felt was… regret. He didn’t want to give it up. He simply had no other choice. “No. Not unpleasant.”

His gaze had dipped down to his hands resting in his lap, and he stared at the calluses on his fingers and palms from years wielding a sword. He hadn’t gone through all these years unscathed. On his left thumb was the scar from when he’d been caught off-guard in a pitched melee; he’d tried to guard a spear and the blade had slid past his sword and cut deep just above the knuckle. He had been a fool to trust Isabella and more of one to believe that Siegfried had betrayed them. It was those mistakes which had taught him prudence. Caution told him to stay silent. He’d spent barely any time with Matis at all. And yet, the man had known his secret for months and hadn’t betrayed it, and this craving was a real problem which he seemed to understand better than Lancelot did. Even now he simply waited as Lancelot lifted his gaze, looking into Matis’ eyes. What he saw there was a simple lack of judgment. Perhaps… he could trust him.

“No,” he repeated, trying to find the words to express what he wanted to say. “It fulfills me. I know that it’s not something I should indulge in, but… I want to. I don’t want to give it up.”

But he had to. He couldn’t continue on like this. Matis may not have judged him, but the next one would. He could use the dungeons in the bottom of Feendrache castle, but that thought definitely made him sick, and the consequences might be worse if he tried that than if he continued to “borrow” other people’s castles.

“Because you’re frightened of having this secret discovered?”

Lancelot nodded morosely. “You’ve been kind not to speak of it, but I am sure that others would not be so discreet. It is the same with Feendrache castle. If I were discovered…” His throat closed at the thought. How had he ever been so naive? “I can’t,” he whispered. “I should never have done it in the first place.”

“And if you had a place which was safe?” Matis asked gently.

He couldn’t possibly be offering… that was madness. And yet hope welled up in Lancelot’s chest, quelling the sickness he felt. “You mean… Here?” Lancelot shook his head. “No. I couldn’t… I couldn’t possibly….”

“It would solve your problem, wouldn’t it? We’ve already established my discretion. If you needed to use my space regularly, I could provide that for you.” Matis’ gaze was earnest. “You needn’t fear being discovered. I could promise you absolute privacy.”

“And what do you get out of this arrangement?” Lancelot asked. The words came out harsher than he had expected, almost accusatory. “Leverage? Preferential treatment?”

“Perhaps a role to play in your little drama.”

Fear flooded him. Simple. Absolute. In that moment he remembered Isabella’s mad gaze resting on him while he was helpless. His friend was safe. His friend would never hurt him. They simply talked, playing out roles, Lancelot serious, his friend simply thinking it was a game. There was nothing uncomfortable there. Yet Matis… to involve him would be to bring something real into the entire play. Matis, and Matis’ dungeons. Lancelot had never thought of it that way, but it was a totally different affair.

As if reading his thoughts, Matis leaned back, holding up his hands. “Calm down. I’m not trying to extort you. If I’m an unacceptable alternative, I understand. This is hardly the first time I’ve made this offer, and I’ve been rejected before. It… does complicate things, if you want me to feign ignorance, but we can find some alternate way for you to pay me back. Money, trinkets, something along those lines. It was simply an option.”

Lancelot swallowed and wiped at his brow — his face felt clammy, even though the sunlight was warm. As his heart rate began to slow down, Matis took one of the bottles of fruit juice and popped it open, holding it out to him. Lancelot downed half of it in a series of gulps, even though the acid taste of the lemon burned his throat. There was a sweet tang there as well, but he could barely taste it through the sour. He cupped his hands around the curves of the bottle and let it rest on his crossed legs, staring down into it like it might hold some answers for him.

The faint sound of conversation behind him brought him out of his reverie. When he turned to look, he saw a pair of guards walking by. They didn’t even look in the direction of the picnic Matis had set out. Their gazes roamed lazily over the countryside, looking for threats, but it was obvious that they were avoiding paying attention to something which might not concern them.

“I believe I mentioned that my people are known for their discretion,” Matis said, and Lancelot looked back at him. The lord was… smiling. There was a wealth of understanding in his gaze, and the smile wasn’t happy, but it was gentle. “We can make this work.”

“Why?” Lancelot asked.

Matis waved his hand dismissively. “As I said, you’re hardly the first one with this probl—”

Lancelot slashed his hand through the air. “No. Why me, and why…” He choked on the words. Why did Matis want to play a ‘role’ in it? Had he been planning that the entire time? The memory of Matis’ fingers wrapped tightly around Lancelot’s wrist the night before rose to the surface of his mind from underneath the alcoholic fog it had been hidden behind. He must have been thinking about it ever since Lancelot had showed up at the castle gate. And yet he’d just given up on it so easily.

“Ah,” Matis said, stretching his arms behind him and leaning back. “You prefer I put my cards on the table. I mean what I said — I’m not interested in forcing you into any relationship you’re opposed to. I had my hopes when I extended that invitation that you would come back and accept what I was offering, but I always knew it might not turn out the way I had hoped. I am used to being disappointed.”

That was enough. Lancelot didn’t need to hear any more than that. Those were Matis’ motives. It was still possible that he was lying, but Lancelot didn’t sense any of it in his tone or expression. His smile held regret, now, but not anger or bitterness. He honestly didn’t seem to have expected more. Lancelot was tempted to let it lie, but… “What are you offering, then?”

“I saw how you reacted. You shouldn’t feel obliged to do anything. We can discuss the terms later, in a more neutral setting.”

“Don’t avoid my question,” Lancelot said quietly. “What are you offering?”

Matis sighed. “Your friend doesn’t know why you play these games, do they? Have you talked to them about what it feels like? Why you do it?”

The shake of his head was reflexive, almost jerky, and he felt his stomach twist. “It didn’t seem important.”

“And you didn’t want to bother them, did you? It would be difficult to explain. And, now, seeing your reaction, that naivety is important to you. If it’s all just a game, then no one gets hurt. I failed to realize that was part of what you were looking for. Safety. So far and no farther.” Matis shrugged. “That’s all.”

Lancelot’s throat was so dry. Was Matis saying he was taking advantage of his friend? Using him? “You’re… still avoiding my question.”

This time, the sigh was heavier. “What I am offering is a partner who understands the frustration of dealing with a need which isn’t easily explained. I don’t care what you want. I won’t judge you for it. I enjoy the idea of having you chained up in one of my cells, even with a promise that you can leave at any time.”

Some of the rising fear must have shown in Lancelot’s expression, because Matis shook his head.

“Don’t look at me like that. I said it was an offer. It’s not interesting if you’re not interested.” His laugh was forced, awkward. “I tried to back out without telling you this, you know. You were the one who insisted.” Rolling forward, he pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his pants though they didn’t have a speck of dust on them. “I’ll go. Enjoy the food. I’ll send Maisie to finalize the details with you about the use of the dungeons, if you’re still interested. You can leave when you like; I won’t bother you again.”

Wait. It seemed like the right thing to say, but the word stuck in his throat. Lancelot stared at the lord’s back as he walked back toward the castle. Matis was intent on backing off the second he saw Lancelot’s discomfort, and that discomfort wasn’t going to change. It was an irreconcilable difference between them, Lancelot told himself. And perhaps it was better off this way, without further complications.


	8. Chapter 8

One of the servants in the courtyard took the basket of leftovers from Lancelot as he entered the gate, bustling it out of his hands before he could protest. Not that he had any reason to protest. He didn’t know where the kitchen was and certainly couldn’t have returned it himself. But he would have done so in Feendrache, and it woke a pang of longing in him.

Every time he had gone out on a picnic before, it had been with Vane, and they had always returned together. Being alone in this situation felt wrong. The courtyard hadn’t changed since he had left. Perhaps the people were different, but the tasks and the energy with which they went about them were the same as they had been an hour before.

But it felt empty. The sounds muted. The light dulled.

Loneliness. That was what this was.

The castle loomed over him, the doors gaping open and the insides dark and inscrutable, and he realized suddenly that he couldn’t bear to go inside right now. There wasn’t anything there for him anyway, and at least out here he could feel the wind on his face. His eyes burned from the grit blown up from the bare ground of the courtyard, and brushed it away from his mouth and nose with the back of his hand. On his right, about halfway down the wall, there was a staircase up to the battlements. Noisette was peaceful enough that Lancelot doubted the guards on watch would mind a well-behaved visitor sharing some of their space. He made his way around a knot of soldiers having some intense conversation about dice and headed up the staircase.

Up there, the walls weren’t crowded, but it was clear that each lookout had his or her own space, and it took walking around a quarter of the perimeter before he finally found a place which was comfortable and didn’t seem to be too close to anyone else. It happened to look over the field where they had been picnicking earlier, and Lancelot felt a pang as his gaze drifted over the space where they had set out the blanket. The conversation still lingered in his mind. Perhaps he shouldn’t have pushed Matis so hard, but he’d wanted to understand… understand why Matis had acted the way he had, what drove him to… make an offer like the one he had.

The idea still made him uncomfortable, Lancelot admitted to himself. There had been no chance that his friend would push the game too far. They likely… hadn’t even understood it. And now, faced with another option, he felt guilty that he had brought his friend into it at all. There was too much tied up there. Too much meaning. Too many feelings. He’d been hiding all of that from his friend, and after having it shoved in his face, it seemed far too much like lying.

The wind which whipped down the line of the battlements this time was cold. Lancelot shivered.

There were other options. As much as he thought Vane couldn’t understand why Lancelot wanted to relive that experience, he would understand enough. Lancelot wouldn’t be relying on his innocence. Asking for it would be embarrassing, and he might lose some of Vane’s regard, but… they had been friends since well before either of them could remember. Perhaps he shouldn’t impose. Perhaps that wasn’t right, either. But Vane was an alternative.

There might be others, too, people he had met in his travels. Some of them were entirely trustworthy. And if what Matis had said was true — and Lancelot didn’t think he had been lying — some of them might even be alike to the lord as well. Someone who… …who wanted to see Lancelot chained up. Who would enjoy that experience.

Lancelot shook his head, resting his elbows on the wall. The gritty stone dug into his arms, well weathered from years of exposure. Worn enough that it might be worthwhile to resurface it at this point. He ran his fingers over it, letting his mind drift to matters of tactics and strategy. Even though they dealt with men dying, those thoughts were more comfortable than the alternative. He’d been wrestling with such things for years. But this…

…this he had avoided thinking about.

Lancelot sighed, leaning against the stone with his full weight even though it hurt. Of course there were people who were a pair to him. People who enjoyed capturing him even as he enjoyed being captured. It was logical. After all, hadn’t Isabella been that way? Oh yes, she and Gareth had held a purpose in capturing him. They had to eliminate Lancelot lest the other White Dragons fix on him, ruining their plans to take over Feendrache. That had been the only thing that Gareth had thought about. But Isabella, Isabella had been different. He could still remember the look in her eyes. The madness, and the… need.

He couldn’t accept it. Couldn’t recognize it as anything but evil. Isabella would have done… whatever she wanted to him. What he wanted hadn’t mattered. The fact that something inside of him had… answered… would have never meant a thing to her. Perhaps she would have found it amusing, though Lancelot knew that her madness had run deep. Perhaps his reaction wouldn’t have mattered at all. All of it jumbled together inside of his head produced no sense of clarity, no answer. She was gone now, and Gareth too, and the creatures which had manipulated her. If he wanted meaning, the only place he could search for it was in his own memories. And he knew… was fairly sure at least… what Isabella wanted to do to him.

His hand closed, tightly. His fingernails dug into his palm. The part of him that… wanted that… was not all of him. If given a choice, he would reject her. Every time. Not just for Feendrache, but for himself. He didn’t want that… need. He didn’t want that obsession. If he was trapped there day after day with only Isabella’s company, unable to live outside that cell, it would have killed him.

Shadow crept over his hand, and he glanced up to find a cloud passing across the face of the sun. The wind was so cold that it cut through his shirt sleeves like a knife. Lancelot slowly let his breath out, forcing it to come out evenly instead of choppy or quick. He didn’t want Isabella.

But Matis wasn’t Isabella, was he?

He was clearly willing to let Lancelot go. He didn’t even seem to want a serious commitment. In fact, the way he’d phrased it had implied he could even imagine sharing the experience with Lancelot and his friend, which was… seriously farther than Lancelot could imagine it going. Perhaps Matis harbored some misunderstanding about what they had been doing? Flustered, Lancelot ran his fingers over the stone, feeling the grittiness on his fingertips. No. No, he didn’t think that was the case. And it wasn’t germane, anyway. The important thing was that Matis was like Isabella in one way, but apparently not in the others. Perhaps that had been the source of his fear — he couldn’t imagine one without the other. Isabella had been both, and he’d never encountered either in isolation. So it had been natural to think that Matis was both as well.

Had he… done the wrong thing, then? In pressuring Matis to make himself clear? What point had there been if Lancelot was going to deny him anyway?

If it wasn’t possible, though, it wasn’t possible, Lancelot told himself. Matis would have been hurt either way. Lancelot didn’t owe him that — and Matis knew it. He’d emphasized it over and over. Not forced. Shouldn’t feel obliged. He’d retreated so quickly when Lancelot had reacted badly… he must have been rejected this way before. And Lancelot could understand that… it was the same reaction he feared should his own secret be revealed. _They wouldn_ _’t understand._

“Sir Lancelot?”

The woman’s voice caught him off-guard, and he jerked straight and turned to face where it had come from. The chamberlain stood two arm-lengths away from him, her face set in a neutral expression and her hands folded in front of her. He knew that look — it was the look that servants got when they knew they weren’t supposed to chew out their “betters”. Lancelot had never gotten used to the idea that it was being used on him, when he had come from no higher station than they did, but he was well familiar with it from the times the servants had caught a glimpse of his room or office when Vane hadn’t been at it recently. Matis must have told her, then. Shame made his stomach turn, but he put on his best attempt at a smile. No reason to take this out on her. “Yes? I hope I’m not in the way.”

“I wouldn’t dare to criticize a guest’s behavior. You have free run of the entire castle, of course.” Her tone was precisely correct, and cutting. “It is simply that my lord sent me to finalize the arrangements with you. Is this a convenient time, or would you prefer that I come to your room later?”

She was behaving as he might had someone undercut King Carl’s honor. Had Matis been hurt that badly by his reaction? He looked out over the field below, his gaze unconsciously lighting once more on where the blanket had been. There had been something around the corner of Matis’ eyes, and tightness in his mouth when he’d spoken those final words, and he’d left quickly. Maybe Lancelot’s refusal had cut the lord deeper than he had thought.

Isabella wouldn’t have been hurt by his rejection — or if she had, she would have simply dug her nails in deeper. The memory of the pain she’d inflicted on him made him shudder, and he put a hand on the crenellations to steady himself. The cold helped center him.

“Sir?” Maisie said.

“I need some time to think, if you please,” Lancelot said, lifting his head. “I apologize for being difficult.”

“I wouldn’t say such a thing,” Maisie said, as she bowed. “I will visit your room later this evening to discuss the terms. Please enjoy your leisure.”


	9. Chapter 9

“I would like to speak to Matis, please,” Lancelot said quietly.

“Unfortunately, Lord Matis is currently busy with a matter which requires his full attention. I would be pleased to negotiate with you on his behalf — I assure you that I have his full confidence in this matter.”

Lancelot sighed, his hand resting on the inside of the door. Maisie was standing right outside, holding a tray with a sheaf of papers, a stoppered ink pot, and a pen. It was clear that she had not expected his obstinacy. This was the third exchange with slight variations on the words, and it was clear that neither of them was prepared to budge. Maisie’s dark brown eyes were still and unwavering. The tray was steady in her hands. She could and would stand outside his door for hours if she had to.

“This isn’t about the contract.” Lancelot’s fingers pressed against the door as he repeated himself again. “I would simply like to speak to him.”

Maisie’s eyes narrowed. “The contract is the only piece of business which is still open, and he has delegated the details to me. I am certain we can come to an agreement.”

Arguing would get him nowhere. He might as well throw himself into the midst of an army and try to slash his way out of it. He might survive, perhaps even emerge victorious, but it was still a poor tactical decision. Despite his unease and frustration, he forced himself to take a mental step back. “What if I wished to insert a clause into the contract that I meet with him before it was considered finalized?”

“I am afraid that would go against the lord’s interests, and thus, I would have to decline,” Maisie replied coldly. “I do not believe that this is a necessary aspect in order to secure an agreement on the use of a section of the castle. After all, you have met with Lord Matis, and I assume that you find him a trustworthy individual, who would stand by any contract made in his name by an authorized individual such as myself.”

She was as unyielding as any knight, ready to defend her lord with every weapon at her disposal. Lancelot smiled ruefully and shook his head. This wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Every attempt to disarm her met with a sharp riposte. Otherwise she simply stood there in his way, the tray and Matis’ delegation an iron guard he couldn’t break. Surely she wished to secure this agreement as well. If he did, it would keep him away from Matis and close the entire matter for good.

Did Matis regret treating him so gently in the dungeons now, Lancelot wondered. Did he think that he should have run Lancelot out as his rights had permitted? Did he think the invitation had been a mistake?

A sudden rush of clarity brought with it an idea. If he couldn’t find Matis, could he… induce Matis to come find him? Lancelot’s gaze dropped to the floor as he thought the idea through. It wasn’t in his nature to cause a scene, particularly when it came to this matter. But when he’d locked himself in Matis’ dungeons the first time, Matis had been the one to come himself. Perhaps this time he would simply delegate it to Maisie or one of his soldiers… it was a reckless plan, Lancelot admitted. But the worst he thought he’d endure would be embarrassment, and he tasted that with every sharp exchange he had with Matis’ chamberlain. He’d been assured that Matis and his people kept their confidences close. If rumors were going to fly, they would have already done so. The risk was manageable, and it was the only thing he could think of which had a chance of breaking through this situation.

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot said, as he returned his attention to Maisie. There was a hint of doubt in her eyes — she had to notice that he had been deep in thought. “My thoughts are elsewhere. I know I have been nothing but trouble in regards to this matter, but if you could give me just a bit more time to think.”

Maisie was silent for several seconds, considering, but eventually nodded. “This cannot be postponed indefinitely, Sir Lancelot. This contract will need to be signed before you leave tomorrow morning, or I am afraid I will no longer be able to guarantee the terms.”

Would he be back to the roving dungeon life, then? As the ridiculous thought came to him, he smiled. “I understand.”

He shut the door gently and rested his back against in, his gaze roving over the contents of the room as he thought. The first time, he had actually invaded Castle Noisette from a drain which ran from outside the walls to a rarely used room which was only a stone’s throw from the dungeons. He crossed his arms over his chest, considering, but attempting the same entry was risky. Matis had likely figured out Lancelot’s path in and closed it — the lord might be tolerant, and Noisette seemed relatively at peace these days, but he wasn’t stupid enough to simply leave an open access point into his stronghold. Even if he hadn’t, Lancelot would first have to leave the castle without being noticed, circle around the back, also without being noticed, and then sneak in. It was unnecessarily inefficient.

He could also simply approach the dungeons from within the castle itself. He knew the way; Matis had taken him out the front door, after all. Combining what he knew from his stay here with his memories of the layout from a few months ago would be relatively simple. There hadn’t been any guards when he’d been escorted out before, but Matis had said something about a guard reporting Lancelot’s presence in the dungeon before. That could have simply been a periodic sweep or patrol, but it was also possible the man could be stationed outside of the door which led down. And in the unlikely event that Matis currently had a prisoner, even just a soldier in for dereliction of duty or a drunkard who had caused a few too many problems, Lancelot’s chances became vanishingly thin.

Though it didn’t entirely matter if he was caught. Better that he was caught, simply in a way which didn’t let them interfere with him getting where he wanted to be. He didn’t want to be stuck down there for hours if it was possible to avoid it.

Pressing his hands to his face, he sighed. What was he doing? This entire plan was silly. If Percival ever heard about it, Lancelot would never hear the end of it from him. Siegfried would be confused… and Lancelot was almost afraid that Vane might understand. Not why he did it or what was driving him, but the fact that it was important to him… Vane would understand and support him in that. His friend had been so earnest when he’d sent Lancelot here in the first place.

And oddly enough, it was that memory of Vane’s sadness that galvanized him. He couldn’t face Vane if he returned to Feendrache empty handed. The contract that Matis was offering wasn’t enough. Lancelot needed to understand what Matis had been offering. If he went back without understanding it, he’d be leaving the job half-done.

With a sigh, he rested his head against the door, staring up at the ceiling. The hallway beyond it seemed empty. He wouldn’t put it past Maisie to stand there silently until he relented, but Lancelot suspected she had left. He ran through the route in his mind. First to the main hall, then take the third left from the entrance. Then back through the hallways — he didn’t have specific directions, but he thought he remembered in enough detail. As the minutes stretched out, he felt his breathing slow and his muscles loosen as he prepared to face whatever stood between him and his goal. No one would stop him in the hallways — unless he was unlucky enough to encounter Maisie — but the unexpected could happen. When he pushed himself free of the door and turned to open in, his mind was as clear and empty as if he was about to enter combat. This was serious. He would take it seriously.

As he entered the hallway, it was difficult to present a normal appearance. Walk swiftly but not hurriedly. A guest had no reason to run. Neither meet nor avoid the eyes of the servants or the guards. There was a place he needed to be; a place he was supposed to be. There was nothing suspicious about him. He had free run of the castle. No one had reason to stop him as he made his way to the main hall. No one needed to question him as he found the third left from the door and continued on his way. Around halfway down the winding corridors, he found his attention caught by another painting, this one of a young woman trapped in a spiderweb. He stopped there for a few seconds, considering it, but moved on quickly. If this worked, he could have a long, leisurely conversation with Matis on his next visit. He didn’t need to plumb the depths of the man’s art now.

He reached the door he was looking for without incident and tested the door handle hesitantly. Unlocked. So there weren’t any unplanned visitors, Lancelot thought with a sense of relief. He glanced around, but there weren’t any guards in evidence either — presumably Matis had given them leave, if there were no prisoners to watch. It was not Lancelot’s ideal situation — he had wanted to be caught, simply in a way which wouldn’t stop him from getting to his target — but it would probably be fine in the long run. Matis knew him, Lancelot thought, feeling his face flush. Lancelot disappearing from his room wouldn’t be treated as an unexpected return or a disappearance — Matis knew him, knew where he’d end up, knew why he would be there. And if he was willing, he would answer that call. Lancelot passed through the door, shutting it gently behind him. The worst case was that Matis would send Maisie for him. He knew and accepted that was an option. Plans didn’t always work out how you expected, and eventually, all you could do was hope.

It took Lancelot several minutes to find the cell he had used before. His memory was good, but the corridors and blocks of cells looked fair the same. It took several passes before he was certain that he had chosen the same one. He hesitated in the doorway, staring at the hay strewn across the floor, the bucket in the corner, and the chains hanging free and loose. He could simply wait here. If Matis was going to come, he would come regardless of whether Lancelot chained himself up down here. He would come because Lancelot was in his dungeons without permission again.

His heart raced. Each breath was short and sharp. The chains hung still and silent, not threatening. He could ignore them.

Instead he walked over and took the chains in his hand, running his thumb over the metal links. Smooth. Well-maintained. Matis didn’t seem to have much use for his dungeons… though that might not be true, after all. Lancelot smiled ruefully. Matis probably didn’t have much use for prisoners. Perhaps the occasional disorderly soldier or bandit, held here before they either repented or were handed over to the Enforcers. Lancelot suspected that Matis had guests down here from time to time.

The chains clinked as he let them fall free, swinging leisurely in the air.

Was there any point in doing this if he wasn’t willing to go the entire way? Meeting Matis here standing felt like it would just cause a repeat of their earlier conversation: Matis trying to explain something which Lancelot didn’t want to hear or wasn’t willing to accept. If he wanted to change the conversation, he had to… try to accept it, at least.

Before he could stop himself, he grabbed the swinging chain and snapped the bracelet closed around his wrist. There was no key in the corner this time. He… would have to hope that Matis had kept the key. Or could find a blacksmith. It wasn’t really that much danger, but his heart pounded against his ribcage. This situation reminded him of Isabella in a way that his games with his friend hadn’t. After all, Matis was like her, wasn’t he? He… enjoyed this.

No. It was different. Matis had let him walk away. Lancelot shook his head, dismissing his fears — well, tried, at least — and reached for the other chain. It was a tricky thing to chain yourself up; one hand always had to go first. But he’d had quite a bit of practice at it. He let himself down onto his knees, the chain sliding through his fingers, and carefully maneuvered the bracelet around his wrist. He leaned in, his other arm stretched out tightly enough that the cuff dug into his wrist, and pressed it closed with his chin.

And with a deep sigh, he relaxed. He was committed now. Matis would come, or he wouldn’t. He would do… whatever he wanted to do.

Even though the hay barely blunted the stone underneath his knees, and the metal of the cuffs dug into the heel of his hands, and his shoulders had already begun to ache… the relief he felt was indescribable.


	10. Chapter 10

The scrape of heels against stone brought Lancelot’s head up, his muscles tensing as he woke out of a light doze. Time passed differently in cells, something he was well familiar with, but he hadn’t expected that he would have to wait so long. His knees began to throb as he shifted his weight, and he grimaced, shaking his head to clear it. The footsteps in the hallway were confident, but not aggressive. No rattle of metal, nor the dull squeak of leather. No armor. Hope rose, and his heart along with it as a familiar face came around the corner, crowned in gold which shimmered in the lights from the corridor.

“You are familiar with a facilities contract, aren’t you?” Matis asked, his tone hovering somewhere between irritation and exasperation. “Typically one completes the paperwork and pays — or makes arrangements to pay — before one uses the facilities. And yet I find you’ve broken into my dungeons again.” He deliberately leaned back and turned his head, dramatically checking the corridor. “Should I be expecting another visitor?”

The biting tone made Lancelot wince. He knew this had been a reckless way of drawing Matis out, but it had been the only one he could think of with Maisie determined to stonewall him. He swallowed, ran his tongue along his lips to wet them. And suddenly, he had Matis’ full attention. “I apologize,” he said. “I couldn’t think of another way.”

“Deliberately,” Matis said, but sighed. His tone was musing as he continued, his gaze sweeping from Lancelot’s knees to his arms. “More questions, then? You chose a rather provocative way of going about it.”

When faced by the idea of putting his thoughts into words, Lancelot hesitated. What had seemed so clear and straightforward when he had thought about it outside of the situation now felt humiliating. How could you even ask for something like this? As he lifted his wavering gaze to look at Matis directly, though, he saw no mercy in Matis’ expression. If he wanted something, he would have to ask for it. Matis wasn’t going to assume, nor help.

“When I see you, I see her,” Lancelot said slowly. “Everything you’ve done while I was here demonstrates that you are a different person, but before you, she was the only one I had ever met who wanted… this. I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of the shadow of her.” He half expected Matis to turn and leave at that point, but the lord simply stood there, waiting for him to finish. The next words came easier, as the tightness in his chest loosened. “You’re right. It’s not fair to my friend to enlist their help in this when they don’t understand what it means, and I don’t want to be… misunderstood… forever. Can we try?”

A soft sigh escaped Matis as he shrugged and offered Lancelot a smile. “When asked like that, how could I possibly refuse?” His gaze ranged over Lancelot’s outstretched arms. “This isn’t typically how I do things, but I can’t fault your enthusiasm.” He held up a finger. “First, if I don’t like how things are going, I am going to stop. I will let you go, and you will go back to your room. No arguing. Is that clear?”

Lancelot nodded. It seemed like a strange stipulation when Matis was the one who held the keys to the cell, but if it made him feel comfortable… it was hardly an unreasonable request.

Matis flipped up a second finger. “Second, if you’re afraid, or you need me to stop, you need to say so. I will stop. Is that clear as well?”

“If I’m… afraid?”

Matis shrugged. “If you’re uncomfortable in a way you don’t expect or are worried you can’t stand, don’t hesitate to say so. I won’t blame you. We’ll just stop. We can talk it out later, but you don’t have to protect my feelings.” He sighed. “It might sound strange, but this is very important to me. I need to know that you will speak up if I’m hurting you, or if you feel ill, or even if you’re just not sure that you want to continue. Is that clear?”

Perhaps this was just Matis’ way of drawing a dividing line between him and Isabella? But it didn’t seem like a particularly difficult promise, so Lancelot nodded.

“Very well.” And now Matis came into the room. As he crossed the threshold, Lancelot felt his presence in a way he hadn’t before. The lord had always been confident, but now he seemed to fill the room — the same way as Percival or Aglovale filled the space. An absolute authority. And with Lancelot’s arms suspended and on his knees, he felt a chill creep up his spine. His nerves came to full attention as Matis stopped in front of him and reached out a hand, laying his fingertips on Lancelot’s cheek. Warm and smooth. No calluses.

Matis sighed and went down on one knee, his thumb capturing Lancelot’s chin and holding him in place as their gazes met. “I’m not interested in innocent games, either,” he said in a low voice. “I won’t simply let you free without a bit of… compensation.”

Lancelot suddenly realized his heart was pounding against his ribcage — he could feel his own pulse faintly beating against Matis’ thumb. It wasn’t simple fear, it was a heady mix of jitters and anticipation. How long had it been since the last time he’d slept with someone… he had been so busy planning his little escapes that he hadn’t actively pursued a relationship in quite a while. Matis tugged him forward, and they kissed as Lancelot’s shoulders ached from the chains holding him back. Their tongues met, Lancelot pressing forward, but yielding as Matis’ fingers dug into his chin. They broke apart with a gasp as the chains rattled. He couldn’t remember getting up on his knees, but his gaze was level with Matis now, and the lord was smiling as he ran a thumb over his own lips.

It didn’t need to be said. Matis had challenged his resolve and Lancelot had answered.

“Let’s get that shirt off of you,” Matis said as he stood and circled behind Lancelot, ducking under the chains. Lancelot twisted, trying to keep his eyes on the lord — after all, didn’t it make more sense to unlace the shirt from the front? — but was stymied by the tightness of his restraints as Matis sat down behind him, nearly on top of his heels. A hand came to rest on his lower back. Then the soft hiss of a blade clearing a sheath. Lancelot stiffened, real fear cresting in him.

“Hold still,” Matis said. The blade slid between Lancelot’s shirt and his exposed skin, and he held very still, sweat beading on his brow. “It’s single bladed,” Matis said. Thin metal tapped against Lancelot’s skin, but it didn’t cut — it was simply the spine of a knife. “The blade is sharp, but I won’t cut you unless you start throwing yourself about.” He lifted the blade until it pulled against the cloth, but stopped there. “You’re tense. Do you need me to stop?”

Lancelot’s breath escaped him in a slow hiss. It was single-bladed — Matis was right, he wouldn’t be hurt as long as he simply remained still. As long as Matis’ hand didn’t slip. But Matis was both an artist and a fighter, and there was not a tremor in the blade as he held it still. As Lancelot accepted the situation, his muscles relaxed. “Are you really certain you want to ruin the shirt?” he asked, chuckling.

“It’s my shirt.” The knife moved and the linen began to part, tickling Lancelot’s skin as it draped past the blade. “And I don’t particularly want to be lectured on property damage from someone who installed his own set of chains without my permission.”

The knife was nearing the nape of Lancelot’s neck. While he knew Matis wouldn’t hurt him deliberately, the thought that the knife was so close to his vitals made his stomach twist. He realized he was leaning forward, his wrists pressed into the cuffs once more. “I was… careful. You could have removed them.” It was peculiar, wasn’t it? He hadn’t really expected to find the same ones down here. He could have improvised with whatever was available, but… most people would have had them removed.

The knife caught on the seam of the collar, and Matis slid his hand between the back of the knife and Lancelot’s spine, protecting him as the final threads parted with a short, sharp jerk of the blade. Metal scraped against stone as Matis laid the knife aside and ran his fingers up Lancelot’s exposed back as he leaned forward. His voice was barely above a whisper as he said, “I had them reinforced.”

When he had put them in he had done a proper job. Loose chains were dangerous — he could hurt himself if he unintentionally pulled them free. And yet he found himself struggling anew, his wrists twisting and pulling against the metal bracelets like they had any chance of freeing him. His breath came in short, sharp pants as he tried to get free. This wasn’t fear. Every time he yanked and found himself still restrained, it sent a pleasant shock through his body. Fallen… he was truly deluded if he found this pleasant. Matis’ chuckle in his ear fanned him to greater heights.

Matis’ arms draped over his shoulders, pulling him back. Fingers fumbled at the laces holding the front of his shirt closed. How much had he left exposed already? The edges of the cut fabric tickled his back. Matis’ breath was hot on his cheek. It was… overwhelming. He couldn’t stop what was happening. Matis had told him… but it was entirely in the lord’s hands whether he respected Lancelot’s decisions. If Lancelot told him to stop, Matis could continue — there was little that Lancelot could do to prevent it. He felt… adrift. Staring up at an empty sky while the water underneath buoyed him up. Fear… and acceptance.

Fingers teased the edge of his pants, dipping past the waist band and stroking his solar plexus. He let his head fall back to rest against Matis’ shoulder. Lancelot’s lips were pressed together, but they couldn’t entirely hold back the groans from deep in the back of his throat. A forearm hooked underneath his chin, holding his head back, and he felt dizzy. The warmth of Matis’ body suffused him. Inescapable. It was hard to imagine fighting this. Matis asked nothing of him… nothing but his honesty, and his genuine reaction.

Hair grazed his shoulder as Matis nuzzled his neck. Breath warmed his skin, and then Matis’ tongue drew a wet, hot line up the side of his neck to his jawline. Instinctively, Lancelot leaned back, but the arm around his throat tightened slightly, holding him still. Teeth grazed his ear, and Matis sighed.

“Do you… want this?” Matis asked, his voice low and tense. The fingers resting just underneath the waistband curved, his nails digging in just slightly, as to emphasize his meaning. “Or have you had enough?”

Sweat dripped down his brow. The room should be cold, but he was long past feeling it. He hadn’t been prepared for the intensity of his own reaction. His… games before had been thrilling, but not like this. He was already hard, pressing against the concealing, restraining cloth of his pants. Matis had probably noticed, but it was clear he was trying not to push Lancelot outside of what he was comfortable with. And he was overwhelmed. The thought of saying stop under these circumstances was difficult… both because of how he felt, and because the situation had already progressed so far. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea to continue. But he didn’t want to stop, and it had been so long since the last time he’d been with someone else.

“Don’t stop,” he said. “I can… please.”

Embarrassment ratcheted the heat a bit higher, but Matis’s hand delved under his pants and grabbed his cock, and it was suddenly hard to think of anything else. It was a tight fit in there — had the pants always been so tight? — and the angle was awkward, but the sensation of the fingers gripping him was sublime. “Ah—”

Matis murmured something indistinct in his ear, sounding satisfied. His thumb lightly worked the foreskin, and Lancelot’s head went back as he gasped. The arm around his throat lifted, drawing his body taut — there was no give between that, Matis’ body pressed against his, the manacles pulled tight around his wrists. It wasn’t enough to cut off his breath, but he strained against the things holding him in place, and they simply… refused to yield.

His skin slid over his shaft as Matis’ hand moved, slow and confident. Each stroke drove him to struggle, and he fought, his tension rising with every motion denied, every ache in a muscle pushed to the edge. The arm under his chin moved, just slightly, and he opened his eyes, staring up into the darkness of the ceiling above as he groaned. Too much… he was fighting too hard. Matis wasn’t a knight. Lancelot shivered, the sudden fear that he might hurt the other man chilling his ardor.

Suddenly, Matis’ weight landed on him, pushing him forward. Lancelot let out a startled cry as his arms had to hold them both up. His fingers scrabbled at the air, trying to grab for the chains, but they were already out of reach. The steel was jammed tight into his wrists. His knees were pinned underneath him. And while his neck was no longer exposed, he suddenly felt more helpless than he had a moment before. How would he even get out of this situation? …by not getting into it in the first place.

“Don’t hold back,” Matis said, his lips right next to Lancelot’s ear. “I’ve got the keys, remember? You can’t hurt me.”

Had Matis… picked up on his hesitation? The thought flitted through Lancelot’s mind for a moment, but another quick set of strokes drove him even closer to the edge than he had been before. He could… stop this at any time, he knew. But at the same time he felt like he was falling, his arms outstretched, trying to grab for a hold that wasn’t there. His fingers reaching, scratching at the air. The light from the door seemed so faded even as it stretched across the stone at his feet. And he wondered, suddenly, what he looked like in that moment.

Perhaps like a man who would stretch his hand through the bars of his cell, desperate for someone, anyone to take it.

“Ah—”

His teeth snapped together as the climax crashed over him, but he still couldn’t do anything more than twitch in the throes of it. Matis’ weight held him down so effectively, and the thought of that sent another flash of pleasure chasing after the first. It felt… like eternity. Stretching out. It had been… so long. So very long. He shuddered as his thoughts were washed clean, leaving him hanging, empty and yet full. In the wake of the climax came a slow, gentle satisfaction, a warmth which spread out from his stomach and through his limbs, all the way to the fingers and toes. And when he finally went still, Matis wrapped his arms around Lancelot’s chest and pulled him backwards, taking the weight off his arms.

Oh, and then the aftermath came. The tens of tiny pinpricks, aches, cold, pain. They registered, distantly. Not enough to demand attention. Not enough to wipe the pleasant feelings clean. But Lancelot knew from experience that he would be paying for this tomorrow. He sighed, relaxing completely and letting the chains and Matis take him, then stiffened as he realized he’d been ignoring something. “Wait… what about you?”

Matis laughed. “I should have expected that from a knight. Not this time. Not under such impromptu circumstances.”

He was… talking like there would be a next time, as if this would happen again. Did Lancelot… want that? Want more of this? His mind ranged back over the experience he’d just had, the details already a little hazy. But he remembered the feeling of struggling, and how that had felt. Knowing he couldn’t escape, and that Matis was capable of taking advantage of that, but also knowing that he wouldn’t.

This… had actually been what he was searching for. The thing which was missing.

The thought gave him the energy to smile up at Matis. “More rules?”

A slight shrug of the shoulders. “I understood enough to do this, but for that, we need a bit more time for experimentation. You’re still planning on leaving tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Lancelot admitted. There were things he needed to take care of, things he hadn’t wanted to dump on Vane. His friend was capable, but paperwork wasn’t his strong suit, and the position of Captain required a lot of it. Matters could take care of themselves for a few days, but beyond that… His head spun at the vision of piles of paperwork covering his desk, the floor, the little coffee table, the sofa. An exaggeration, but far too close to the truth for comfort. “I have responsibilities.”

Matis’ smile was rueful, but not upset. “As do I. Send me a letter when you think you’ll be able to come by next time. Assuming that I haven’t scared you off.”

Lancelot shook his head. “I’ll come visit again.”


	11. Chapter 11

Thick drops of rain pattered the window with an irregular beat, and the tree branches lashed wildly in the wind as it gusted. Autumn was a time for storms, and this one was no different. It had only been a drizzle for drills that morning, which had been a blessing, but now the rain had well and truly set in. Hopefully it would clear by evening and he and Vane wouldn’t have to walk down to the town in pouring rain for their patrol, but even if it lingered, a bit of weather wouldn’t kill them. Lancelot smiled to himself and returned his attention to the paperwork in front of him. He frowned at the totals listed, scrawled a question in the margin, and set it to the side for further review. The next… patrol assignments. He absently tapped the tip of his pen against the blotting pad as he thought. A week ago there had been an altercation between two of the knights in a bar… should he modify the patrol assignments to keep the two of them separate, or try to force them together to resolve the situation?

“Lancey?”

Lancelot smiled ruefully at the nickname and glanced at the door. “Come in, Vane.”

Vane carefully shouldered his way into the room holding a tray with two steaming cups of tea and some cookies. He nudged the door closed behind him with a foot and walked over to Lancelot’s desk, then waited for him to move the papers out of the way before setting the tray down. His hair was a darker gold and flattened by the rain; he’d obviously been outside recently. “I thought you could use a breather.”

“You look like you could use warming up,” Lancelot said with a smile as he reached for one of the cups of tea. “Any trouble?”

“Just got in from the courtyard.” Vane ran his fingers through his hair roughly, trying to shake some of the water out. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there. Might have to cancel evening drills; it’s all well and good to practice fighting in bad weather, but I think we’d just get people hurt.”

Lancelot’s fingers were warm as he cradled the teacup, the bittersweet aroma of the herbs tickling his nose. “Let’s cancel,” he said after a moment of thought. “You and I can’t be there anyway.”

“I’ll let the knights know.” Vane took a bite of one of the cookies, then chased it with a sip of tea. “Paperwork?”

“Always,” Lancelot replied ruefully, staring at the mound of papers. “I should be able to clean up the backlog by the end of the day. Then it’s just a matter of keeping up with it.” Every time he went away it seemed like he came back to even more work. Feendrache was a growing country; King Carl’s policies were having real effects, and the renewed flow of trade with Wales and Lumiel meant more and more complicated security arrangements. Sometimes it seemed overwhelming, but he knew he could handle it.

“You seem better,” Vane said suddenly. “Less… frustrated. It looks like it worked? Getting away?”

The comment caught him off-guard, and perhaps that was why his reaction was so intense. He tried to breathe the next sip of tea instead of swallow it, and went into a coughing fit that spilled half of the rest of the cup on his lap. For a moment he had been back there with Matis in that dark, quiet place, and the feel of the warm, wet tea on his pants reminded him of other things. Flustered from both the thoughts and his embarrassingly severe reaction, he grabbed for the nearby rag only to find Vane was already saving the paperwork. They spent a few moments in silence cleaning up, though the damage to the reports was limited to a few flung drops.

“Well?” Vane prompted him.

“Yes,” Lancelot said, staring at the sharp pen lines of the report on the top of the stack. “It worked.”

“Good.”

Lancelot lifted his head, surprised by the frank relief in Vane’s voice. His friend met his gaze with a smile.

“I don’t like to see you suffer, Lancey. I wish I could help more, but I don’t know what you’re doing, and if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. Just know I’m here to back you up, whatever you need.”

“Thanks.” Vane’s simple affirmation fell into place like a missing piece to a puzzle. He had everything he needed: supportive friends, wise counsel, the men under his command who trusted him with their lives, the people who he had sworn to protect… and someone who understood a part of him that he had thought was broken.

“So when are you going on your next trip?”

Lancelot closed his eyes for a moment, letting the embarrassment pass, then said, “When I need to next, I’ll go.”


End file.
